bakedmandos

[bakedmandos]

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank. 

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed. 

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.  

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts. 

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills. 

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go. 

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser. 

Freak. 

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug. 

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this? 

This he’s good at. 

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page. 

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced. 

Then: 

Churn. 

Nope. 

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then: 

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?” 

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze. 

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone. 

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly. 

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.  

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch. 

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway. 

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head. 

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale. 

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real. 

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels. 

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked. 

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact. 

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?” 

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.  

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale. 

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips. 

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.  

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest. 

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch. 

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?” 

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm. 

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod. 

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you. 

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while. 

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy. 

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly. 

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks. 

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look. 

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine. 

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.  

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight. 

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.  

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—” 

He laughs. 

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window. 

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall. 

You lick your lips again. 

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.  

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth. 

After that, you go quiet again for a while. 

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread. 

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat. 

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward. 

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should. 

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric. 

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning. 

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know. 

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.  

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play. 

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’    

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space. 

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while. 

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you. 

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows. 

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer. 

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek. 

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed. 

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.  

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him. 

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips. 

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow. 

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord. 

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything. 

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky. 

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod. 

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight. 

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.  

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door. 

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console. 

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. 

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel. 

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink. 

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters. 

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[bakedmandos]

boyfriend reveal

[bakedmandos]

father’s day for many is hard. this post is dedicated to those who see the cards come out and feel sick. some fathers leave, some abuse, some neglect, some have passed away. whatever the case may be, it can be trying. i hope you get through the day feeling as good as possible. just another day in the year. remember you are not obligated to love someone who hurts you even if it’s a parent. for those who have good fathers, i hope you have the best day with them.

[bakedmandos]

Caracalla in Gladiator II (deleted scenes)

[bakedmandos]

|| good to me ||

Pairing: Ralph Penbury/Reader

Summary: Ralph had been not so subtly sneaking around the house with a camera. You had to find out what he was up to.

Word count: 2.4k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, little slice of (married) life, Ralph is a nuisance (affectionate), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.

(This was absolutely inspired by the iconic "I have some pictures I took of you when you weren't looking" line. Stay classy, Ralph. The research I had to put in for this tiny fic was unreal, I swear. But look at this gorgeous photo that absolutely saved me when I'd written myself into a corner.)

Ralph Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It was a beautiful morning, in the midst of the sunniest June you had yet seen. Dappled sunlight streamed through the ivory voile curtains, and a gentle breeze whispered through the open bedroom window. The lavender were already in full bloom in the gardens below, their faint scent floating up through the warm air.

This time of the morning was always your favourite. Not so early that you felt as though you had been robbed of sleep, and not so late that the day felt as though it was already slipping out of your grasp.

You sat at your vanity table, still dressed in your pyjamas, as you meticulously removed each little duckbill clip that had held your hair in place overnight. Normally at this time, Ralph would be going through his usual routine of opening and closing one of the clips with little quacking noises to make you laugh, but today he was distracted with something else. You could see a little of what he was doing in the reflection of the mirror that sat in front of you.

“Ralphie,” you called, gently teasing your curls loose with your fingers. “What are you doing?”

The clattering coming from behind you suddenly stopped.

“Oh! I forgot to show you, didn’t I? Silly me. I was in the attic just yesterday, and I found this!” he said excitedly.

He crossed the room to you, holding the object out for you to see with a wide smile on his face.

It was a camera. A slight older model of one, from the looks of it.

“Oh, how lovely,” you said. “Does it still work?”

He turned the camera carefully in his hands as he looked at it.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he replied with a little frown. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Well, as long as you’re not trying to take pictures of me while I'm getting ready,” you said with a little laugh, turning your attention back to your hair.

Ralph laughed too. A little too loudly, you noticed.

“Yes, of course,” he replied quickly. “How…vulgar that would be of me.”

He laughed again, nervously this time, before promptly turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

Your eyes narrowed briefly, and then you thought no more of it.

The next few days passed with Ralph absolutely infatuated with his new find. He had managed to figure out how it worked, which he was delighted with, and had insisted upon showing it all to you.

At first, you thought it was quite sweet that he’d taken such a liking to it. But now, you were beginning to find it rather irksome. For starters, he never seemed to put the bloody thing down. You wouldn't mind so much, but trying to have even a simple conversation with him as he was right now was like trying to wade through treacle.

“Ralph,” you said, attempting to keep your tone light. “Do you think perhaps we could have dinner without your new toy on the table?”

His cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and he quickly slid the camera under the tablecloth out of sight.

“Yes, darling, of course,” he muttered, not quite able to meet your eye.

Not only that, but he seemed to be getting more and more underfoot. Quite literally, at times. More than once, you found yourself tripping over him as he attempted to set up a shot of the garden, or of a flower in a vase. He really was all limbs sometimes, particularly as he was now, splayed out on the rug a few metres away from where you sat.

Afternoons like these, when the sun was a little too high for the gardens to be a comfortable resting spot, were perfect for retiring to the library with a book for a few hours, and so that is what you had decided to do.

Of course, it does always help to have quiet when reading, and well...

Ralph, as usual, was anything but quiet. He was rather fond of mumbling to himself as he went about his everyday tasks, and right now was no different. You found yourself peering more and more over the top of your book, entirely unable to concentrate.

By the third time he had distracted you, you were quick to notice that the camera in his hands was now aimed at you.

Ralph's eyes met yours, and he only just managed to stop himself from shattering the camera on the floor in his clumsiness.

"Are you alright?" you asked, placing your now quite forgotten book down in your lap.

Ralph stood up a little too straight, looking every which way but at you.

"Yes! Yes, of course," he answered, in that nervous way you had become all too familiar with.

The one that said he was definitely up to something, and was not about to admit to it.

"Are you sure?" you persisted gently, your hands now folded on top of your book as you watched him.

Ralph turned his head quickly. You knew that if he'd had a hand to spare, he would have been pulling at the collar of his shirt in a fretful manner.

Your dear old Ralphie always was so predictable.

"Of course, of course I am," he replied, his laugh more of a nervous titter. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He cleared his throat loudly, looking down at the camera.

"Well now, I must be- I should-"

He trailed off into a non-committal mumble before swiftly leaving the room.

You sat for a moment, your gaze fixed on the door that Ralph had almost fallen through in his haste to leave.

What on earth was wrong with him?

Being married meant that you were more than familiar with Ralph's little quirks - one of them being that he was rather prone to picking up new hobbies and dropping them again as quickly as that. You surmised that in no more than a week, this silly camera business would be long forgotten about, and he would be causing a commotion with some other fad or trinket.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Ralph seemed more enthused with his new pastime than ever, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that that blasted camera seemed to be pointed more and more at you.

While you had to admit to yourself that it was rather endearing in a manner of speaking, it also left you feeling quite uneasy. Couldn't he just ask you, instead of sneaking around as he evidently was? Granted, you never had been the most comfortable with having your photograph taken, but even so. It would be nice for him to ask for your permission.

Perhaps you were overthinking things, you tried to reason with yourself. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence that Ralph seemed to follow you around with his camera. The two of you did spend quite a lot of time together, as married couples tend to do, and so it made sense that it would seem that way.

Besides, there really wasn't a bad bone in Ralph's body, so even if he was up to something, surely no harm would come of it.

Somewhat reassured, you tried to put it to rest.

Until you caught him at it again.

You were in the midst of getting ready for bed one evening, make-up washed off and hair reset for the next day. You had just finished tying your dressing robe around your waist when Ralph had walked in with, unsurprisingly, his camera in tow.

He had been very well behaved the past few days, and so you had thought nothing of it. Until you had turned to adjust one of your hair clips in the mirror of your vanity, and he was doing it again.

You felt your jaw clench. You had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but this was getting ridiculous now.

Twice was a coincidence, but thrice was certainly a pattern, and by now, you had had quite enough of his odd behaviour. You marched across the room, and Ralph's eyes widened, almost comically, as he saw you approach.

"Give me the camera," you demanded, holding out your hand.

Ralph clutched it to his chest protectively.

"Why?" he asked in a wavering voice.

"Now, Ralph," you insisted.

Hesitantly, he handed it over to you.

"Follow me," you said.

Before he had the chance to reply, you had grabbed his hand and all but pulled him across the room to your vanity table. You sat down on the little velvet bench in front of it, placing the camera on the table so that the lens was facing the mirror.

Ralph stood next to you nervously, unsure as to what to do with himself. You patted the space next to you.

"Sit," you said firmly.

Thankfully, he did as he was told without argument. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but it would more than suffice for what you had in mind.

You placed your hand on top of the camera, positioning your index finger over the shutter button.

"Ralphie," you called in your sweetest voice.

Immediately, Ralph turned his attention to you. Hook, line and sinker, as always. You reached out with your free hand, grabbing him by the collar of his pyjama shirt, and dragged him forward to kiss him. You could hardly stop yourself from smiling as you felt him gasp against your mouth, while your finger pressed down on the button. The camera made a whirring sound, followed by a loud click, and it was only then that you released Ralph from your vice-like grip.

"There," you said with a satisfied smile. "Are you happy now?"

Ralph just stared at you, with the same dazed expression he often had after one too many glasses of sherry.

"I- Well- What?" he managed to stammer.

You tilted your head to one side, feeling rather pleased with yourself. It wasn't the easiest task to render your husband speechless, and so you were always quick to bask in it the rare time you were able to manage it.

"Do you really think I'm stupid?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've been about as subtle as a brick tossed through a window."

Ralph's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink at that.

"Darling, if you'd let me explain," he said quietly, as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve.

"Go on, then," you replied, unable to hide your amusement.

"Well, you see I- It's just-"

He stopped himself, taking a little breath.

"I know that you don't particularly enjoy having your photograph taken, and while I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I don't like pushing you to do things that make you uncomfortable. But..."

He trailed off, as if choosing his next words carefully. You said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"Well, I...I thought perhaps I might take some candid photographs of you. You know, whilst you were preoccupied. That way, I wouldn't be bothering you."

Only Ralph could make something as odd as trying to sneak photographs of you sound so...romantic.

"I know I've been quite a pain these past few days," he continued, shyly glancing up at you. "I do hope you'll be able to forgive me."

Now more than ever, you were grateful that Ralph hadn't quite figured out how to make a weapon out of the look he was giving you right now, otherwise you'd be in serious trouble. For how could you possibly remain angry at such a sweet face?

You took his hands in yours, squeezing them gently.

"From now on, just ask me, alright?" you asked. "No more of this 'sneaking around' business. I might not always say yes, but...well, now that I know it means so much to you, I'm certainly willing to try a little more."

Ralph's face lit up at that, and he leaned in to kiss you again.

"Thank you, dear," he replied, his forehead pressed lightly against yours. "I couldn't possibly ask for more."

It was a week or so before Ralph returned home with his developed photographs. He almost tripped over the threshold of the door in his haste to bring them to you. Without warning, he all but threw himself into the space on the settee next to you. You wisely set aside the embroidery you had been working on.

"They're here!" he said excitedly. "I just picked them up an hour ago. I haven't opened them yet, even though I've been just dying to."

As contagious as Ralph's excitement always was, you found yourself feeling a little nervous as he tore through the large brown envelope and began eagerly flipping through each print. A good deal of them were out of focus or off-centre, but he had definitely begun to improve as time went on.

Then he stopped suddenly, and you felt your heart stammer against your ribcage.

There it was. The photograph you had taken together. Of the two of you kissing, framed by the gilded mirror. Ralph's eyes were wide open in surprise, and yours were shut just a little too tight. It was a little blurred, and the camera took up a great deal of room, but...

You carefully reached out to lift it, looking over each and every little detail.

It was perfect.

"You certainly have the makings of a photographer in you, darling," Ralph said softly.

You turned to look at him, and the fond look on his face set your heart aflutter all over again.

"Perhaps we might keep this one to ourselves," you replied shyly. "Think of the scandal it would cause, hanging it in the sitting room."

You laughed nervously, expecting Ralph to do the same, but instead he shook his head.

"Oh, let people talk," he murmured, with quiet sincerity in his voice. "As if it's a scandal to love my beautiful wife as much as I do."

You could feel yourself becoming rather overcome with emotion, and you turned your attention back to the photograph in your hands.

He was right. What did it matter, really?

You felt Ralph's arm wrap carefully around your waist, his hand giving your hip a gentle squeeze. You laid your head on his shoulder, expelling a soft breath, and allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet together.

Perhaps Ralph's ridiculous notions for hobbies weren't always quite so ridiculous after all.

Taglist: @glassbxttless @getaapologist @robinbuckleywife @bib200

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[bakedmandos]

New Hellfire BTS Pics!!

This redditor has just released these new bts photos from their work on stranger things season 4 and I am loving themmmmm

Head of the Hellfire Table!

Some little things I noticed:

Eddie has a silver chalice that he drinks his mountain dew from (what a dweeb I love it)

Gareth's character sheet says that he plays as a character called Balthazar (meaning Gareth the Great is just a nickname Eddie calls him, not a character name)

Where Jeff sits, there appears to be a spiderman(?) comic stashed under his notebook (bottom-ish left corner, next to his red dice), so maybe he's a comic/superhero fan!

Eddie's DM book!

Some little things I noticed:

Eddie is a confirmed artist! Not only has he drawn Vecna like a badass, but underneath the page there is another doodle of what could be a lil demon or devil (I immediately thought that it could be a tiefling, but sadly they were only introduced into D&D in the 90s)

Eddie draws his own maps too! Look at that hatchwork omg

Vecna's HP seems to have been going up? One redditor posited that it might have been due to a life steal mechanic from Vecna's staff or his eye, while another redditor suggested that Eddie didn’t know how many hit points Vecna really had so he just kept changing it until he felt like he’d given them a good fight. You decide!

Bonus: According to the Og redditor, Joseph Quinn might have been the one to write Vecna's HP while shooting!

Please share if you notice anything else in these pics, if they confirm some of your headcanons or if they inspire new ones too!

[bakedmandos]

busy woman

pairing: johnny storm x assistant!reader

summary: you’re way too busy at your new job to even remember to eat sometimes. but you could spare a minute or two to pretend not to like it when johnny would flirt with you. inspired by busy woman by sabrina carpenter!

word count: 3.9k+

note: help wanted part 2 is here! thank you for all the love on part 1 🫶🏻 i’ve been working on this for like three months and she’s finally here 🥹 i’m definitely planning more stuff for these two but i may need to see the movie before more parts come out lmao who knows! enjoy !!!

< prev part

“Excuse me. Sorry.” You weaved and dodged the hoard of busy employees rushing in different directions. With the looming deadline on the horizon, the facility resembled an ant colony more than an office. Each person had a single goal and that was to get that rocket up in space.

While you couldn’t solve a complicated equation or weld metal, you quickly learned that you were pretty good at being an assistant. You had already built a system and connections with other departments that made it easier for you to do your job. Sue seemed to like you, at least you hoped she did cause it’s only been a month and you realized that you really liked working here.

Currently, you were on your way to deliver the stack of folders in your arms. Across the floor, you spotted the long chalkboard filled with various symbols and numbers that you would probably never understand. Dr. Reed Richards stood at one end, a piece of chalk hovered over the board. You approached him.

“Dr. Richards?” He flinched a little as if you pulled him out of a number-induced trance. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Ah, you didn’t. You saved me, actually. I needed a break. This equation’s been racking my brain for weeks now.” Dr. Richards crossed out a string of numbers and letters.

“It does look pretty tricky.”

“Tricky’s one way to describe it.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw while he stared at the board in thought.

“I don’t wanna keep you for too long. Sue wanted you to have these documents.” You handed him the stack of files. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly at the mention of his wife.

“Thank you.” He flipped through them and picked out a single folder. “Has she mentioned anything about tonight?” He glanced at you expectantly.

“She’s very excited for your date.” You grinned. Over the past few weeks, you’ve been a firsthand witness of Sue and Reed’s relationship. The sweet nothings they would mumble to each other when they thought you were out of earshot, the extra slip of paper slipped in between stacks of folders, the way they seemed drawn to each other in a crowd.

Definitely didn’t make you feel more single than you already were.

Nope.

“Great.” Dr. Richards smiled shyly. You tried to ignore how red his face had gotten. “You tell her I’ll be done in a few hours and that I promise to be on time.”

“I will.”

“You’re the best.” Dr. Richards turned back to his board and immediately started scribbling. You took that as your sign to go back to your desk. Again, you weaved and dodged the crowd to get back to your desk and get started on yet another task. You were listing down to-dos in your head when you spotted a man by your desk. You sighed and braced yourself for impact.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Jonathan Storm called out as he saw you approaching. He was leaning on the front of your desk. One leg crossed over the other, arms bracing his weight behind him. Big, handsome grin on his face.

“Johnny.” Your voice clipped as you walked around him. You started typing on your computer, trying to ignore him in hopes that he would leave you alone before he could see how flustered he had made you with two words and a smile.

“Busy?” He turned and put his forearms on the edge of your desk, eyes burning a hole in the side of your head.

“Kinda.”

“Gunning for employee of the month?” Johnny picked up a pencil from your cup and started tapping it against the side of your monitor.

“Maybe.” You spared a glance at him. “Do you need anything from Sue?” You tried to divert the attention away from you.

“No, I don’t need anything from my dear sister today.” Johnny sighed and plopped down on the seat you kept in front of your desk for any visitors.

“Then what are you doing here?” You stopped your typing and you fully faced him.

“Wanted to see my favorite assistant.” He shrugged.

“I’m not your assistant.” You scoffed.

“No? Then I just wanted to see you.” A sly grin spread across his lips like the Cheshire cat. You blinked at him for a second, two. Allowing yourself to indulge in his attention until you remembered who he was, who you were, where you are.

You pulled your eyes away from his and looked down at your desk.

“Johnny… You can't say things like that to me.” You strained.

“Why not?” He asked you.

“Cause you work here.” You threw your hands up in exasperation. Could he really be this dense? “And I work here. For your sister, might I remind you.“

“What does that have to do with anything?"

“You can’t…you know.” You moved your hands in the air awkwardly.

“What?” He was goading you now, big brown eyes boring into yours.

“Flirt with me.” You said through your teeth.

“But I want to.”

“But you can’t.”

“You don’t want me to?”

“I-“

He had you cornered. Damn him.

“How about this? I’ll try my absolute best not to flirt with you.” You glared at him but he never wavered. He continued to blind you with that signature Storm smile. “And you can pretend not to like it. Deal?”

“Johnny.”

“Seems like a pretty sweet deal to me.” Johnny put his arms out as if to say ���See?’. “Just as pretty as you are.” He added with a wink.

“Johnny!” You exclaimed. You couldn’t stop the flush that spread over your body even if you wanted to. Before you could tell him off again, you heard Sue’s voice calling you from inside her office. “This isn’t over.” You pointed a finger at him and narrowed your eyes.

“Oh, I hope not.” Johnny simply smirked and slid down on the chair as if he were lounging on the beach.

The keyboard clicked and clacked away as you typed out a report. The office had gotten quiet, people started leaving a couple of hours ago. Even Sue had passed by your desk and told you not to stay that late. You promised you wouldn’t. You just had a couple more things to do and you could call it a day.

But you thought about how you would save so much time tomorrow if you got a few more things done today. So here you were, neck aching and hands cramping, checking off yet another one of your to-dos.

You rolled your neck around to relieve some of the ache. You really needed to be more conscious of your posture.

“If you keep staying here this late, I think they’re gonna start charging you rent.” A voice echoed through your empty office, making you jump. Your relief turned into annoyance when you saw who it was.

“Johnny, you scared me!” You put a hand to your pounding chest.

“You’re working in a dark office all alone and you get scared by little old me?” Johnny dropped down in the seat in front of you again. “But, don’t you worry. Johnny’s here now and he’s gonna keep all the scary monsters away.”

“My hero.” You said dryly but a smile tugged on your lips. “Nothing better to do tonight?”

“Just keeping you company.” He shrugged. “And making sure you don’t stay here overnight. Do you realize how late it is? You shook your head and checked your watch.

“It’s already 10pm?” You gasped. The nearest window to you was a couple of desks away so you didn’t realize just how late it had gotten. You swore you weren’t working that long.

“Didn’t see the sun setting?”

“Not really.” You mumbled sheepishly.

“Did you leave this desk at all today?” Johnny raised a brow at you.

“Yeah, Sue had me pick up some reports from her earlier.” To which you took to your desk, sat down, and typed out reports for.

“And?”

You rattled your brain. “And… I used the ladies’ room a couple of times.”

Johnny made a ‘tsk’ sound and plopped a brown paper bag on your desk. “Eat up, busy bee.”

“What is this?”

“Food.” He reached inside and tossed something your way. You awkwardly caught it and saw that it was a burger wrapped in parchment paper. “I'm pretty sure you haven't had anything to eat the whole day.”

“How’d you know that?” You said, voice barely over a whisper. Your stomach grumbled as if it remembered what hunger was. Meanwhile, Johnny was already digging into his own burger.

“Well, I’ve been watching you for a couple of weeks now. I know you get so focused on your work that you skip meals.” He picked up a fry from the bag and popped it into his mouth. “And when I saw your car in the parking lot, I figured you'd be in here for another hour or so, so I went and picked up some burgers for us. Lo and behold, here you are. Glued to your desk.”

You were quiet for a second. Since you started here, Johnny had been pestering you. He was nice, of course but he had a knack for catching you at your busiest and talking your ear off. He annoyed you most days, made you smile on others.

Today. Today, he made you smile. Johnny noticed that you were working late and brought you food. You could cry but you weren’t sure if it was because you were touched or hungry.

“You've been watching me? Stalker.” You unwrapped your burger and took a bite. He rolled his eyes at you.

“That's all you got? No ‘I love you, Johnny! You saved me from starving to death!’?”

“Thank you, Johnny. You saved me from starving to death.” You continued to eat your burger and looked Johnny dead in the eye.

“I think you got that first part wrong.” Johnny lifted his brows, expectantly. He wanted to hear the words ‘I love you, Johnny’ come out of your mouth. Fat chance.

“Mm,” You moaned exaggeratedly around your burger, making Johnny shift in his seat. “This is so good. It wiped my memory. Who are you again?”

Johnny chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Go eat your burger.”

A-choo!

You sneezed into a wad of tissue that you’d crumpled into your hand. You wiped your nose and stuffed it into your skirt pocket. There was a bug going around and you did everything in your power to keep it away from you. You took your vitamins, overloaded yourself with fruits and vegetables, stayed far away from anyone who tried to clear their throat.

And yet. It got you.

You sniffled miserably and went back to taking notes on the engine test Sue asked for. It was hard to focus when you had a pounding headache and a round of coughs threatening to spill out. Shake it off.

“You feeling okay, hon?” A gruff voice asked. You turned and saw the kind, worried eyes of Benjamin Grimm.

“I’m fine, Ben.” Your voice was hoarse.

“That runny nose and wad of tissues sticking out of your pocket says otherwise.” He pointed a finger down.

“That’s nothing.” You shoved your hand in your pocket and pushed everything down.

“If you say so.” He nudged your arm with his elbow. “Take it easy at least.”

You smiled gratefully. Ben looked rough and mean on the outside, piercing blue eyes and a mouth of a sailor to match. You were pretty intimidated by him when you were first introduced but you quickly learned that he was just a big sweetheart once you got to know him.

The two of you continued your work. Ben was helping you make sense of all the technical jargon. After a couple of minutes of note taking, your vision started to get hazy and you wobbled on your heels.

“Okay, let’s take a break.” Ben stated. He gripped your arm and gently pulled you down to a nearby chair. You wanted to protest but he cut you off. “No, no. Sit down. I’ll get you some water.”

You tried to call out to him but that round of coughs you were suppressing finally made itself known. When you were done, you sunk down in your chair. I hate this. You thought. God, you missed the days when your nose wasn’t clogged.

“Hey, so I stayed in last night. Crazy, I know. Who am I?” You groaned. Johnny was gonna rip you a new one. You sat up and put on the most “I’m not sick!” expression you could muster, even slapped your cheeks a few times to get some color back in them. Johnny strolled up, carefree as always. “Anyways, I watched that movie you were talking about last week and- whoa, wait.” He stopped in front of you. Johnny scanned your face with an intense gaze.

“Hi, Johnny.” You said, sweetly, but he just narrowed his eyes at you.

“What’s wrong?” He questioned.

“Nothing’s wrong. How was the movie?” You tried to distract him.

“No, no, no. You look pale.” Johnny put one hand on the back of your chair and bent down to be closer to you. Your face was heating up. You were going to chalk that up to the fever you were probably developing…and not because of his face so close to yours. “Did you forget to eat again?”

“I had lunch.”

“She’s sick!” You looked over Johnny’s shoulder and saw Ben coming back with a glass of water in hand.

“Ben!” You groaned.

“Sick?” Johnny immediately grabbed your face with both hands. “You’re burning up, sweetheart.” Johnny’s voice was soft. His thumb brushed your cheek with a featherlight touch. You leaned into his palm for a fraction of a second. Blame it on your flu-ridden brain.

“Johnny, it’s okay.” You matched his tone.

“What the hell are you doing here? Go home.” He gave you an incredulous look. He took one of his hands away from your face and reached back for the glass of water from Ben. “Drink.”

You took big gulps. You didn’t realize how dehydrated you’d become. “I’m not going home.”

“I’m taking you home.” Johnny put his hands on your forearms and pulled you up gently but firmly.

“You don’t know where I live, Johnny. And I’m not leaving.” You shook your head which was a big mistake. You felt light-headed again and wobbled. Johnny gripped you even tighter while glaring at you.

“Sue!” Ugh. You heard your boss’ heels clack behind you. You turned your head much slower this time. “Your assistant has the plague and refuses to go home.”

“The plague?” Sue raised a brow.

“He’s being dramatic.” You corrected him. Sue put the back of her hand to your forehead and tsk-ed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve given you the day off.” She crossed her arms.

“We have so much to do.” Your argument was getting weaker every time.

“It can wait til tomorrow. Today, all I want you to do is to rest until you feel better.” She pointed at you.

“But-“

“No buts.”

Fight’s over.

“Fine.” You conceded with a pout.

“I’ll drive her home.” Johnny put an arm around your shoulder and guided you to a walking pace.

“Feel better, hon!” Ben called out to you. You waved back to him.

“Did you like the movie though?” You asked Johnny.

“Loved it.”

The copy machine was slower than usual today and you were getting impatient. You had a pile of 30-page reports that needed 4 copies by tomorrow morning and you were only at number 3. It didn’t help that you picked the wrong pair of heels today and they were pinching your toes. Never, ever wear pointy heels at work.

You fed another piece of paper through the machine and put your weight against it while you tried to alleviate some of the pain on your feet. You rolled your ankles a few times on each side while grabbing the warm piece of paper and placed it with the rest of the copies. That was the last of copy 3. You pulled out the original pages and started the process one last time.

Sighing, you put the first page in. You looked around the office. It was pretty empty at this time, but there were a few stragglers that you knew would start packing up soon. The machine whirred while you took a headcount of who was still here. John, William, Shelley, Johnny….

Wait.

Your eyes snapped back to your desk where a certain blonde was in his usual seat. A smile tugged on your lips and you may or may not have started speeding up your copying. Once the final page shot out onto the tray, you gathered all of your papers and walked back to your desk.

Johnny was mindlessly fiddling with the pens you kept in a mug on your desk. He had his back to you so you would be able to surprise him for once.

“I think people are starting to notice that you spend more time at my desk than you do at yours.” You giggled when he flinched.

“Well, the view here is much better than mine.” He recovered quickly and shot you an easy smile. You shook your head, letting the flirty comment wash over you.

You pulled out the puncher and punched holes through the reports. You opened your box of paper fasteners and started to arrange your copies into their respective folders. Sparing a glance at Johnny, you saw that he was tapping a beat on your desk with a pensive expression on his face.

“Is everything alright?” You asked.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Johnny tried to keep it light but you heard the edge in his voice.

“You're just…” You dragged, trying to find the right words. “Quieter than usual.”

“‘s been a long day.” He let out a long breath. Johnny’s brows furrowed and the corner of his lips turned downwards.

“I heard you went out into the field today.” You fastened the last report into its folder and gave Johnny your full attention.

“Keeping tabs on me?” A ghost of a smirk graced his lips.

“Part of the job.” You shrugged. “Did something happen?”

“I’m grounded.” Johnny said after a beat.

“What?”

“I’m not allowed to fly for a month.” He stopped his drumming and placed his palm flat on the wood.

“Why would they do that?” Johnny was one of the most competent pilots in the program. It made no sense to suspend him like this.

“You know that the new jets came in this week, right?” You nodded to answer his question. “Well, they asked me to test those bad boys. See how fast they’d go. And that’s what I did.”

“That doesn’t explain why they’d ground you though.” You tilted your head in confusion.

“Well, they only wanted me to go up to a certain speed but I knew they could go faster. I could go faster.”

“Did you?”

Johnny smiled, the first genuine one of the day. “I did. Going that fast. Nothing better than that. You just feel so…free.”

“That sounds amazing.” You couldn’t help but smile with him.

“It was. Until I landed.”

“What did they do?”

“Insubordination. That’s what they called it. The jet was fine, by the way. It was built to go that fast. The admiral just has a stick up his ass. I let him know that too.” Johnny said through gritted teeth, hand curling into a tight fist. You could see a flush of red on his cheeks and his breaths getting shallower.

“How long ‘till you can fly again?” You wanted to reach out and touch his hand but you held yourself back.

“A month.” He scoffed.

“Okay.” You sighed in relief. “You’ll still be able to join the launch.”

“Ha, they can try to replace me.” Johnny jabbed a finger on his chest. “They won’t find someone else.”

“Oh, I know. The team wouldn’t let that happen.” You paused. “Neither would I.”

Johnny’s eyes crinkled. “Going soft on me now, sweetheart?”

“Just cause you’re all mopey today.” You teased. “I am sorry, Johnny.”

“Ah, it‘s not your fault.” He waved a hand at you. You frowned.

“But you’re upset and you’re my friend so still. I’m sorry.” You rambled.

“I’m your friend?” He asked, sounding way too happy about it.

“I think so. Do you think we are?” Your voice got quiet, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“I do.” Johnny nodded.

A warm, fuzzy feeling came over you. You didn't know when it happened, but Johnny had become a staple in your life. It was so easy to talk to him. You found yourself drawn to him in a crowd, saving seats for each other every time there was an office-wide meeting. Then of course, you found yourself here on most days. Sitting at your desk, talking about everything and nothing. Some days, Johnny would just sit there and wait for you to finish working. He’d talk your ear off but you realized it was just to get you to stop working and go home.

Johnny was a friend. And a pretty good one at that.

“Do you wanna go get something to eat? I think we both need to get out of this place.” You logged off your computer and shut it down.

“Asking me out?”

“As a friend.” You gave him a pointed look.

“Uh-huh, sure.” He played along, nodding sarcastically. “Unfortunately, I’ve got plans tonight so I’m gonna need a raincheck on that.” A part of you was disappointed but you brushed it off.

“That’s okay. Next time?” You slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Next time. But, thank you.” Johnny locked eyes with you. “For listening.”

“Any time.” You smiled at him. “Ready to go?”

“You go ahead. I forgot something in my locker.”

“Okay, I’ll see you Monday?”

“Drive safe.”

You navigated out of the building and pushed the doors open. Fresh air filled your lungs, something you often take for granted after being in a stuffy office all day. The parking lot was fairly empty. You could see your own car a few rows down and spotted Johnny’s fire red convertible parked close to the door.

What you didn’t expect to see was the woman leaning against it.

You recognized her. She worked here too but in a different department. She didn’t pay you mind when you walked past, too caught up with finding something in her bag. You looked away before she could catch you staring but your brain was going a hundred miles an hour.

Did she know Johnny? Of course, she knows Johnny. Everyone knows him. What was she doing by his car? And most importantly…

Why was this bothering you so much?

Eventually, you made it to your car and started the engine. As you were pulling out of the driveway, you caught a glimpse of Johnny coming out of the building. In the rearview mirror, you watched him walk up to the woman, kiss her cheek, and open the passenger door for her.

You pulled your eyes away and focused on the road ahead. An uncomfortable feeling settled in your gut. You felt a little nauseous but you ignored it, just like you ignored the green-eyed monster that was slowly making itself known.

Whatever.

You were too busy to have a crush on anyone, anyways.

Much less on someone like Jonathan Storm.

[bakedmandos]

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 13

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: An evening spent in the company of friends is interrupted by a realization, and your desperation to fix what may be broken. Unfortunately, the man you are trying to communicate with has an incessant desire to push you away.

Tags: Period typical views on slavery, Geta’s self-sabotaging, references to past child abuse, references to the cycle of abuse and becoming your abuser, arguments, brief vomiting, suicidal thoughts (Geta), panic attack (Geta), my friend dissociated after reading this so take that as you will.

Word Count: 8.5k words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

If only Geta had continued to make himself scarce, then you would know peace. Everywhere you went, he seemed to be nearby. A senator visited and wanted to see your clinic, or he needed to speak with the keeper of the archives about the sorting systems in place while you were studying, or, perhaps, he simply happened to be in the same area as you. He was the emperor, after all, he could come and go as he pleased — he hadn’t said that to you, yet, but you could practically hear it in that smug little tone of his that he took on when he knew he was right.

Thankfully, he had enough forethought to keep his distance. That didn’t change the fact that he was being plain weird. You went outside, and there Geta was, watching you from behind a curtain, you spent your time in the gardens, and there was Geta, ten feet away, half hidden by a column. Did he think he was being sneaky? Everytime you glared at him, he would storm away, angrier than before. Likely at being caught. What a baby. 

You weren’t a fool, you knew what he wanted. His gaze would linger on the cut he left on your cheek. It was surrounded by an angry, purple bruise, far too obvious to go unnoticed. Geta felt bad about hitting you, that much was certain, but that didn’t change the fact that he had done so in the first place. To your unending humiliation, everyone, save for Caracalla, knew who caused it. Although a few days had passed since the incident, as you were calling it, your anger was still as fresh as ever. He had gone too far. Deep, deep down, though, you felt unfathomably guilty. You had also crossed some lines in your little argument. That didn’t change the fact that Geta had hit you. That, in of itself, was borderline unforgivable.

Perhaps, that was your modern sensibilities talking. A slap was nothing to an emperor of Rome, he was merely putting someone lesser in his place. That was how he saw you: lesser. Someone he could punish at his leisure. Geta hadn’t said that to you, but you were certain that was what he thought. 

Aelius had brought up that Caracalla nearly plucked out your eyes, to which you quickly argued that was different. That was before your relationship had blossomed. Then, Aelius reminded you that the twin emperors had gone behind your back with Marianus’ execution, leaving you floundering ever so slightly. That was different too! In the end, Marianus was alive, and he would stay that way, if Geta’s word was to be trusted. If Geta and Caracalla had killed him, surely you would never speak to either again. 

Surely.

Maybe you caught remorse on Geta’s features when you allowed your glare to meet his, and perhaps, if he would simply apologize, you would forgive him. That was all you asked for — though, you never said it aloud, you simply sent telekinetic waves that you were positive Geta was receiving — a true and genuine apology. Then, you would follow with one of your own. As upset as you were, you knew you weren’t entirely innocent. You doubted anyone else in the empire could say they threw a stylus at Emperor Geta and lived to tell the tale. But, you would be damned if you were the one to approach first, not after he had left you juggling Caracalla’s temper everytime he so much as glanced at the wound on your face. 

The morning after he had soothed you, he had completely forgotten about the night before. To say Caracalla was incensed when he saw someone had hurt you would be an understatement. He was practically inconsolable, screaming about executions and retribution. It took an hour to get him back to breathing normally, where he had curled in your lap while you rocked him. Not once did you tell him that it was Geta who did you harm. That would have been half-decent revenge, siccing an irate Caracalla upon Geta for his transgressions, but that wasn’t what you wanted.

In the end, all you wanted was a god’s damned apology. Was that so much to ask for? 

Aelius looked up from the fabric he was stitching with a sigh, an exhausted shadow to his features. This was not the first time he had heard this monologue from you since the incident, nor would it be the last. “No, my friend, it is a reasonable request.”

“I think so too!” After that exclamation, you leaned over to examine his attempt at a horizontal mattress stitch. Once he got the basics down on fabric, you’d have him practice on a chunk of meat. If you could get your hands on one. “You’re performing well. Keep your hands steadier, however. Your stitching is not particularly tight, and it must be very tight.”

He nodded, focusing back on his work. “I understand.” 

The two of you fell back into a companionable silence. For once, Caracalla was elsewhere, and Geta was either on a ladder watching from the window, or off attending to his imperial duties. Your knee bounced as words bubbled up in your throat, unbidden, oft repeated these days, and surely annoying by this point. 

“Do you believe he will apologize?”

Aelius glanced up from his work, a single eyebrow raised. “An emperor? Apologize? I know that is what you want, and I know it is a simple request, but you must realize it is not realistic.” 

“I know!” You shouted, throwing down your needle and thread. Quieter now, you slumped and placed your head in your hands. In your exasperation, your fingertips pulled at your eyelids. “I am going to have to swallow my pride and apologize first, I know it.”

“I am glad you realize that, at least,” Aelius noted while he began another row. 

A huff left you, and you crossed your arms. “Well, if I must apologize, I will do it in my own time. Emperor Geta will have to wait.”

“He has already waited three days, what is another handful?” 

The sarcasm and the eyeroll were not lost on you. Softening, you placed a concerned hand on Aelius’ shoulder. “You sound frustrated.”

Letting out a sigh, Aelius let the fabric drop to his lap. “Of course, I am frustrated, medicus. I have spent days listening to your grievances about our Caesar, like a lovesick boy before manhood. If you were anyone else, a slap would be the least of your worries! He would have you beheaded!” 

“I am not lovesick.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “I should not be surprised that this is the part you focus on! My care and affection for you runs deep, my friend, but I cannot coddle you. Surely, you understand that the fact that you have not been crucified, or thrown into the arena, is proof enough of his regret.” 

“I know, but I cannot let his transgression go unpunished,” You argued. A beat passed, mostly punctuated by Aelius’ unamused expression, before you spoke again, “Do I really sound lovesick?” 

“Deeply,” Aelius snapped. 

“Well, I am not. I am in love with another.”

“I am aware. If we are not talking about one, we are speaking of the other.” Lamenting with a long suffering sigh, Aelius allowed his posture to slump as he began stitching once more. “I cannot escape the Caesarēs no matter where I turn.”

It took you a moment for you to swallow your disgruntled response. He was right, as of the past few days, all you had done was vent. Aelius was a very good friend for putting up with it for as long as he had. Especially, considering that the topics of conversation involved two people he despised. “Thank you for listening to me, Aelius. I fear I have been selfish.”

He paused his motions to reach up and flick you on the shoulder. “Poor taste in men aside, I am your friend. I listen because I care. It is simply exasperating at times.”

“Dominus brings up a good point,” Justina’s familiar voice made you jump. 

You whipped around to see her leaning her hip against your desk. “Where did you come from?”

“She has been here for several minutes, my friend,” Aelius laughed, ignoring your furrowed brow. Turning to her, he addressed her, if not with a slight bit of hesitation. Despite being your frequent companion — and friend, if she would have you— Justina was still a slave of the emperors. “Would you mind reiterating my point? Perhaps hearing it from another will help him understand.”

Justina shook her head, disappointed. “Oblivious as ever, medicus, but dominus is right. If you were not the object of the Caesarēs affections, you would have been dead yesterday.”

You frowned. “Emperor Geta holds no affection for me. He hates me.”

“If he hated you, you would be dead,” Justina said with a shrug. “I have personally witnessed him order executions for far, far less than what you have done. Look at him. Do you not see him trail after you, staring at the mark he left like he had done you ill?”

“He did do me ill!” What part of that did these two not understand?

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Justina sighed and shook her head. “Emperor Geta has not felt remorse a day in his life until you came along. Tell me why I would not think he holds affection for you.” 

“I—I—” Turning to Aelius for support, you gestured expectantly at Justina. “Aelius, help!”

“She is right, my friend.”

“He does not have any affection for me. I know it to be true.”

“Then why are you not dead?” Justina questioned.

“Because of Caracalla!” 

She hummed, tilting her head from side to side. “I will let you believe that. For now.” 

“Believe, or not, I know it to be true, so I will not dwell on Emperor Geta’s supposed ‘affections’ for any longer.” To punctuate yourself, you stomped your foot and tilted your chin upwards before you remembered why Justina had come. As fast as you had steeled yourself, your body fell back into loose expectancy. “Well, Justina, any news?”

To her credit, she only regarded you with a raise of her eyebrows instead of the facepalm the twitching of her finger betrayed. “He is eating again, medicus, even if slight, and he continues to sleep fitfully.”

For the past few days, as Justina was one of Geta’s personal slaves that took care of affairs in the background, such as cleaning and laundry, you had asked her to keep an eye on him. Not because you cared, of course. After he had slapped you, he could curl up and die under a rock. It was the simple fact that Rome wouldn’t be able to survive with only Caracalla at the helm. For as much as you wanted Geta to suffer one thousand lashes for what he had done to you, the idea that he was wasting away put you on edge. That was why you were relieved when you found out he had begun to take care of himself again. 

No other reason.

“That is not ideal, but it calms me to hear,” You said, placing your hand over your heart.

Above your head, Aelius and Justina shared an eyeroll. Though you couldn’t see it, you sensed it, your lips pursed into a thin line. You knew what they were thinking. Poor, lovesick medicus, so oblivious to his feelings for the man who struck him. It was going to drive you insane, you were sure of it. Yes, you cared about Geta still, you could admit that, but it didn’t run any deeper than that. Despite your conviction, there was this little glimmer of doubt in your chest that you desperately tried to ignore. 

Before you could say something — whatever it may have been, it likely would have dug your grave deeper — Caracalla whirled into your clinic in a frenzy. He didn’t acknowledge either Aelius or Justina, his full attention fixated on you, arms outstretched and palms tilted upwards. 

“Oh, my Alga, did you miss me? Are you well? You have not deteriorated further without me here, have you?” 

Caracalla was always a doting man when it came to those he loved — that list consisting of only you and Dondas, his pet monkey, as far as you could tell — but ever since he saw that cut on your cheek, it had become more intense than ever. Adorned in jewels and one of his finer togas that he had yet to ruin with his roughness, he brushed past Justina to cradle your face in his hands. His thumb brushed against the cut, then pressed against it, earning a startled yelp from you.

“It is still sore, Caesar, be gentle,” You scolded.

“We are alone, melimelum. Call me Caracalla.” He nuzzled his forehead against yours, his eyes falling shut as he breathed you in. 

“We are not alone.”

He let out a puff of air as he finally acknowledged the other two in the room, much to their chagrin. Sparing Justina only a glance, his eyes settled on Aelius for far too long. There was a hint of jealousy in his clenched jaw that was quickly snuffed when you placed your hand over his. Finally, he turned his softened gaze back to you, an indulgent smile on his lips. “Oh, melimelum, it is only a slave and a soldier. We are practically alone.” 

“Do not be rude.” Behind your head, you could feel Aelius glaring daggers at you. You felt your lips pull back in an apologetic grimace he couldn’t see. Only Caracalla did, causing him to tilt his head in confusion before he decided it wasn’t worth his effort to extract the reason from your tight lips. Right, don’t draw attention to your friends, even to defend them. It would not be appreciated. You would have to remember that.

Caracalla scoffed, his gaze flickering back to Aelius, “It is not rude! It is true!” 

You opened your mouth to continue hammering in the fact that he needed manners before you decided against it. Caracalla was an emperor, and they were not. He did not need manners, not even when speaking to patricians. For all intents and purposes, he could say and believe whatever he wanted. Snapping your jaw shut, you relented, “Of course, Caracalla.”

“Good, dulcis,” Caracalla praised, his voice husky as he leaned closer. Heat flooded your cheeks. Though he didn’t care, you were very aware of your audience. Ever so slightly, you leaned back before he could capture your lips in what was sure to be a searing kiss. His eyebrows furrowed, mouth twitching into a frown. “Bad, dulcis.”

“Don’t you have duties to attend, kitty?” While Caracalla visibly wilted at the reminder that he had an actual job to do today, he preened at the nickname. You had told him the word meant ‘brave’ in your language. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“I do, I simply came to do this.” This time, he was too fast for you to react. Caracalla pressed his lips to the cut on your cheek in a tender way that left your heart pounding. “There. Now you will heal faster with my love on your skin.”

You were far too endeared to correct him on the matter. “Yes, that makes sense.”

Caracalla beamed, proud. “Does it not? Now, goodbye, dulcissimus, stay sweet for your Caracalla’s return.” 

In the same whirlwind that he had arrived, he left, the doors of your clinic slamming shut behind him. You were surprised they had yet to fall off the hinges due to the constant rough treatment. That was a far quicker visit than any of the previous ones. Much to your relief, considering who you were with, he decided to go without your touch. Normally, he would pull you into a heated kiss, which would devolve into him humping into your hand. Your wrist still ached from the amount of quickies he had demanded from you between meetings. As if you had any right to complain, you indulged him rather ecstatically if the speed he found release was anything to go by. 

Justina’s comment confirmed your suspicions that he was shirking his duties to see you. Again. 

“Emperor Caracalla is late to his meeting with Senator Gracchus. It was supposed to start ten minutes ago.” 

Aelius was relaxed now that Caracalla was gone and placed his head in his hand, elbow resting on his knee. “That, or perhaps he left in the middle to attend to his lover.”

“I hope not, he can barely do his job as is,” You grumbled, albeit fond at the notion. Being wanted was a new concept for you, and you found yourself desperate for more, despite the logical part of you knowing there would be consequences. 

Justina turned her ever sharp stare towards you, a small smile on her lips. “I have been in service to the emperors since I was a child, and if there is one thing I can tell you with certainty, it is that you are the third most powerful man in Rome.”

“I am not,” You were quick to deny.

Aelius gave you a small push. “My friend, you have that man at your beck and call.”

Justina agreed with a nod of her head, “The only thing keeping him from erecting a statue of you in the forum is partly his imperial brother, and the fact that you would be displeased.”

She was right, you would be rather irritated. He better not start having public artwork commissioned for you. That would be beyond embarrassing. “How do you know that?”

“Emperor Caracalla has a bad habit of talking to himself when he considers himself alone,” She said with a shrug. “He is often not alone.” 

You laughed at that, the topic of the emperors fading away for the first time in days in the face of artisans that Justina and Aelius preferred. It was nice to be in the company of friends, exasperated as they were at your insistence to recognize the reality of your situation. Because, and you were pleased to say this with certainty, that was what this was. Reality. Not some silly romance novel, or a comedy where everyone always pined for who they couldn’t have, this was your life. Justina and Aelius were far too fixated on their own interpretation of events rather than what actually happened. Geta was not fond of you by any stretch of the word, the fact that he hit you was proof of that. 

Not once in your entire life had someone hit you. Not your parents, not your bullies, only a man who, allegedly, was obsessed with you. If he truly cared, he wouldn’t feel driven to cause you physical harm in the first place. That was your stance, and you were sticking to it. 

Though, you couldn’t deny that what Geta had said during your fight echoed in your head. That he needed you before he had squandered whatever that meant by calling you a whore. His brother’s whore. He told you how Caracalla would never be able to understand the depth of your feelings — but he could, was left unsaid, you realized with a start. Beside you, Aelius and Justina chattered mindlessly, each growing more comfortable in the other’s company the longer they spent in it. You, on the other hand, felt sweat begin to form on your temple. Surely, that wasn’t what he meant. It was impossible for him to feel anything but contempt for you. Clutching your tunic tight in your fist, you remembered that you had never apologized to Geta for what was said at the party. You still could not remember what it was, but perhaps, if you knew, it would help everything about this whole, awful mess slot into place. 

That drunken night had to be the final piece of the puzzle that you were missing. It was no excuse, there would never be any excuse in your book for being hit, but knowing would help you understand. Despite everything that Geta had done, you desperately wanted to understand him. A part of you yearned for him. Upon that thought, you felt your eyes widen and your breath catch in your throat. That was ridiculous. You couldn’t yearn for Geta, not when you were already in love with his brother. The edges of your vision began to blur as your breathing picked up. With Caracalla so determined to not give you a moment alone, you hadn’t had time to truly examine your feelings in depth. All you knew was that Geta had hurt you. Not the fact that his desperation lit a fire in you that you didn’t know if you could put out, not the fact that you had done him ill too, thrown his deepest insecurities back into his face, and not the fact that you found Geta to be one of the most uniquely beautiful men you had ever laid eyes on.

Apology from him be damned, you needed to fix this. 

“Medicus, are you alright?” Aelius started to ask, but you were already on your feet.

Turning to Justina, you asked, “Where’s Geta? I need to speak with him.”

She gave you a knowing look, satisfaction raw in her smile. “In his office. Good luck, medicus.” 

That was all you needed to hear before you took off. You were pleased to be in one of your preferred tunics rather than the ones Caracalla continued to gift you. They were far too long and complex for you to properly run in. At least, not without lifting the hem like some sort of princess from a Disney film. This tunic was as simple as ever, an eggshell color, the only intricacies being the golden thread embroidered along the bottom. It ended at your knees, making it easy for your feet to fly the short trip to Geta’s office. If he was listening, he was sure to hear your heart hammering beyond the entryway. That, or the sound of your sneakers squeaking against marble. 

You raised your first to knock, only to pause before your knuckles could touch the wall. Was this really a good idea? Geta wasn’t the easiest man to get along with, even when he was in a good mood. If his behavior the past few days was anything to go by, he would not be happy to see you. While you knew he regretted his actions, getting an apology was another problem entirely. Aelius and Justina were right, expecting one from an emperor was unrealistic. Still, that didn’t change the fact that you deserved it. Those two words weren’t even a necessity, simply a promise that he would never do it again would be enough. That wasn’t too much to ask for.

With that in mind, you knocked.

“Enter,” Came Geta’s imperial command, and you did just that. One foot after the other, you stepped into his office, intending to wear your heart on your sleeve. It would all be okay after this. All you had to do was communicate. Geta was a logical man, he would understand. 

When he lifted his head from his desk to catch sight of you, a myriad of emotions flickered across his face, too quick for you to read. He settled on a frustrated glower, raising his chin to look down his nose at you. “There you are, Alga. Do you have something you would like to say to me? I have waited quite some time.” 

You felt your temper flare at that, though you forced it as deep as it would go. It seemed Geta expected an apology from you. That wasn’t a surprise, you had cut deep, and you were sorry for saying it. What irritated you so much was the fact that Geta didn’t seem incensed to apologize himself when he was the one who had hit you.

“I have come to apologize, Caesar.” In the end, you decided to be the bigger person. Certainly, that would pave the high road for Geta to dare to put his high and mighty shoe upon it. “And talk about what transpired a few days ago.” 

Geta hummed and turned his attention back to the wax tablet open on his desk. With his stylus, he scribbled a few words down before closing it with a flick of his wrist. He looked tired, and he refused to look at your cheek, fingers toying with each other. When your gaze found his hand, you realized he was missing a ring. 

“What is there to discuss besides your remorse, Alga?” Looking you up and down, he sat back and leaned his head on his fist. “I expected more groveling. You continue to be a disappointment.”

“Excuse me?” You felt your shoulders square and your voice pitch with indignation. “What is there to discuss, Caesar? You put your hands on me!” 

The only sign of a flinch was a twitch of his eye. Again, he looked at the bruise on your cheek, deep purple and angry, before giving an uninterested sniff. “I do not see why you’re so upset. You are the one who did me ill. Retribution was necessary.” 

“You had no right to hit me!” The exclamation left you before you could stop it. You crossed the room with purposeful strides and slammed your hands upon Geta’s desk. He regarded you with an unimpressed look. 

“I am unmoved by your childish display, Alga.”

“Childish? Childish?!” You all but shrieked. This was not going how you wanted it, but it was hard to control your stubborn temper. You knew what was right and what was wrong, where Geta seemed to be confused. Shoving your finger in his face, you continued, “How dare you call me childish when you cannot even admit your obvious remorse!” 

He swatted your hand to the side and puffed out his chest. Regal, like a falcon, or perhaps a peacock, all beauty, no real bite. Merely a pomposity that you previously believed was unachievable. “My obvious remorse? Why should I feel any regret for what transpired when you are the one who doesn’t show a hint of remorse?”

“I do feel bad, I do! That is why I came to you, but you cannot truly believe that you did no wrong!” It was hard to get your thoughts in order in the face of Geta’s insistence to lack empathy. It was so simple, so easy to see, why didn’t he understand? All he had to do was show even the barest inkling of remorse and this would be over. Why could he not indulge you with this one request? Did he not say himself that he would give you everything?

“An emperor does not regret, Alga,” He sneered, and you felt tears burn in your eyes. “Or, perhaps, I am nothing more than ‘a child with laurels’ to you, as you so eloquently spoke. Is that why you feel so deserving?” 

“Nobody has the right to hit another, Caesar!” Geta of all people should know this. He knew intimately what violence could do to another’s mind, and yet he insisted on this ridiculous refusal to acknowledge his wrongs. 

What he said next was nearly enough to break you. “I am your Imperator, and I will do as I please! Perhaps another good smack will help you learn your place!”

Clenching your fists, you lowered your chin to glare at him under your eyebrows. A snarl made your lips pull back. You decided to let him know the truth of the matter. “Lay your hands on me, and I will never forgive you. You will be dead to me, Caesar. Any fondness I once held for you will turn to nothing, and I will despise you.”

Geta visibly flinched at that, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He stood, his breathing heavy, seemingly at war with himself. Staring at the fury on your face, the cut he left behind twisted and marred, he steeled himself once more. “You need to be put in your place.”

“Is that what your father said to you?”

“What?” That seemed to get his attention. Maybe that was what he needed to hear, a reminder of who he could become if he wasn’t careful. Geta needed to know the line he was in danger of crossing, and maybe you were petty enough to feel satisfied that you were the one telling him. 

“You heard me, Imperator, is that what your father said to you before he hit you?” Geta was frozen, his eyes wide and unseeing. You took your opportunity to continue before he could put an end to it. “Do you not see where your logic leads you? I spoke out of turn, so I must be punished. You are my better, so you had a right to put me in my place. I know you regret it, Caesar, so why won’t you admit it?!” 

He was quiet for a moment, his pupils flickering as he processed what you said. Finally, he murmured, “… You believe me and my father to be the same.”

“What? No, Caesar, I am simply trying to—”

“Get out.” Geta was deceptively calm before his features crossed into white hot fury. His fist was clenched so tight, his fingers had bit into his palm. Droplets of blood splattered onto the ground next to him. 

It was now that you realized that you had gone too far. Still, you believed yourself to be right, if only he would let you speak. 

“Please, listen to me!”

“Out!” Geta picked up the wax tablet and reared back to throw it at you. A whimper ripped from your throat as you brought up your hands to cover your face. A part of you felt like you deserved this, braced for certain impact. To your surprise, nothing came. There was no shout, no clatter, no blow, only desperate, heavy breathing. When you stopped cowering, you saw him staring at you, his face torn with agonizing realization. As fast as it came, he fell into numbness, his arm collapsing against his side. There was no emotion left in his voice. “Leave.”

A beat passed, cold enough to make you shiver. For a moment, you feared you had broken him. Maybe now was the wrong time to bring this up, remind him of the man he seemed so desperate to forget. 

“I know you think I have gone too far, but I need you to listen to me. You are not your father, that was not what I meant, only that—”

“You did,” He said, as empty as before. “Leave.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I only want you to understand.” It was all you could do to apologize, regret and guilt swelling in your gut with enough force to make you sick. 

“Do not make me beg,” He intoned, voice hollow. 

You had to fix this. Someway, somehow, you had to take back what you said. Dress it up nicer, neater, with a bow so that he could see that you were trying to help him. “Please don’t make me leave, Caesar. We can talk, all we need is to talk.”

“You cannot even bring yourself to say my name.” Geta’s voice was strangled, his eyes glassy as his nostrils flared. Choked, with only a thread of control left, he repeated, desperate and pleading, “Leave. Do not make me beg.” 

A breath left you, and Geta turned away to stare at the wall. You watched him for a moment, his arms curled under his belly in the facsimile of a hug. There was nothing left to say. Not even when you saw his shoulders jump and a cut off sob rip from him. It should be you who was hurt and crying, it should be you who felt the other had gone too far, but it wasn’t. Being right didn’t matter anymore, not when you had done harm so intensely that you realized there was no going back. The least you could do was give Geta the privacy he requested. Despite this, you took a step closer and reached for him, only to pull back before your fingers could brush against him. You needed to leave.

He raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his tears made obvious by his choked command, “Go!” 

Against your better judgement, you obeyed. It was only when the door clicked behind you did you hear it: the proof that Geta and his brother were more similar than either could admit. You supposed that was why he had you leave. If only so he didn’t feel your eyes on him when he finally broke, destroying his office and screaming obscenities. 

In only one interaction, you had done more harm to Geta than only one other man had achieved. That realization was what sent you leaning out the nearest window, vomiting your dinner onto the story below. 

It was night now, the moon high; time for bed if there ever was one. Behind you, Geta’s anguished cries echoed through the halls, and you fought the urge to return to him. It was never a comforting fact to realize that you were in danger of continuing the cycle, of being the perpetrator rather than the victim. Wiping the bile from your chin, you clutched your stomach as it continued to churn. What you did was not a kindness, but a necessity, no matter how painful. You only wish you had done it better, sat down and spoke with Geta about how easy it was to fall into bad habits. Abuse wasn’t always a cruelty, but sometimes, when it was all you knew, it could be learned and ingrained into you in ways that are nearly impossible to unravel. Caracalla was not free from this fate, either. You loved him, but you were not foolish enough to deny the fact that he was a cruel and sadistic man to those he considered beneath him. 

A groan built in your throat. If Geta handled this poorly, you could only imagine how badly Caracalla would take it. The thought of hurting him so thoroughly made your head ache as regret from how your most recent argument with Geta ended made your vision blur at the edges. You were so tired. This was for the best, but the guilt threatened to suffocate you, seizing your lungs in a tight grasp, never to let go. There was a likelihood that Geta would never forgive you, and the idea made you want to turn around to beg for forgiveness.

“He needed to hear it,” You muttered to yourself, desperate for some form of assurance. “If he is ever going to get better, he needed to hear it.”

That was all you could hope for. That Geta would take your words to heart, maybe heal from his open, gaping wounds. They had been infected, still oozing pus when you had arrived in Rome. You prayed that you had carved the disease from him just now, and though Geta was left raw, maybe, maybe, they would finally close. That was your end goal after all, you were the emperor’s physician. Sometimes, it took a harsh truth for the mind to heal.

Quiet despite the tears that welled in your eyes, you crept into your bedroom. The torches were doused and soft snores emitted from a lump under the covers. Caracalla had come to bed without you, likely exhausted from the multitude of meetings he was forced to attend today. That was what he got for scheduling everything to only a handful of days a year in an effort to do less work. He told you so, quite proud of his plan. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him how ridiculously stupid his idea was. Fondness helped undercut that horrible feeling of helplessness in your chest. Despite your affirmations that you had not done Geta ill on purpose, that this would help him in the long run, you couldn’t help the way your knees knocked, nor nausea in your stomach. 

“Kitty,” You whispered as you crawled into bed. Gently, you roused him by shaking his shoulder. “Caracalla. Wake up.”

He groaned and blinked at you, eyes bleary. “What is it, Algacula? I was asleep.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” When he heard how tight your voice was he sat up, covers falling from his bare chest. Caracalla tended to sleep naked, a fact you quickly grew used to the longer he shared your bed. 

His hands found your face as he pushed you to lay down. It was hard to see him in the dark, though he was close enough to see his eyes narrow while he inspected you. “What is wrong with you? Who has done you harm? I will have them slaughtered.”

“I am the one who has done harm,” You said with a thick sniffle. 

“Oh.” Caracalla blinked at you and laid back down. Lifting his arm, he gestured for you to fall against him, an invitation you accepted with vigor. “… And you are sad? You are so silly. My pathetic little medicus.” 

“It was your brother. I upset him. I was right, but I upset him.” The confession tasted like ash on your tongue, though Caracalla didn’t seem bothered. 

“Geta is always upset, Alga. A little more than usual will not break him.” Caracalla inhaled deeply, a pleased hum leaving him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “Let me sleep now, your Imperator has had a long day.”

Caracalla fell back asleep within a minute, but you were left awake, alone with your thoughts. Geta was not the most emotional man, to cause him enough distress for him to fall into an outburst reminiscent of his brother’s weighed heavily on your conscience. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t let yourself drift off. In your chest, there was this irrational fear that…

That Geta wouldn’t be able to take it. You were terrified that when you woke up in the morning, you would find him gone. Curling into a ball, a shiver overtook your frame. Leaving him was wrong, you should have stayed. Privacy be damned, you wouldn’t have left Caracalla. You had remained by his side, even while he hit you in his frenzy, determined to calm him. 

That, you had forgiven easily because he was not in his right mind. The needle, you had brushed past because you knew Caracalla to be a terror, that was simply in line with what you expected from him. Threats, blindness, sadism, cruelty, they all came to your lover as easily as breathing. Geta, you hadn’t afforded the same level of patience because he seemed to be much more stable. Above the same impulsive violence as his brother. Now, in the dead of night, wallowing in your own regret, you feared you would lose him because of it. 

You knew you were right, but you should have afforded Geta the same gentleness that you gave Caracalla. Lodged in your brain like an ice pick, you couldn’t stop turning over the idea that, if you didn’t find him, if you didn’t stand by Geta’s side fast enough, he would—

Oh, dear god, what if Geta killed himself?

It wasn’t until you sat up and threw your feet over the edge of the bed, Caracalla grumbling behind you, did your bedroom door fly open and hit the wall with a deafening crack. 

“Medicus!” Came Geta’s cracking scream. He rushed into your room, his throat clutched in one hand, the other tangled in the fabric against his chest. The only noise you registered aside from Caracalla’s questioning groan was Geta’s ragged breathing. 

“Caesar, you’re alive!” Unable to keep the relief from your voice, you padded over to where Geta was pacing. The light spilling from the torches in the hallways illuminated his wide, bloodshot eyes. His face was pale. Naturally so, for once. He wasn’t wearing his makeup, possibly preparing for bed before he frenzied into your room.

Geta whipped around to face you, his features split into desperate terror. “I have been poisoned, medicus! I— I cannot breathe, I cannot— I cannot!”

Awake now, Caracalla let out a cry. “Who has poisoned my brother?” Uncaring of his nakedness, he stood, looking frantically between a panting Geta and the open door before making his decision. Wrapping a sheet around his waist, he began to scream, “Praetorians! My brother has been poisoned! Find him, find the perpetrator! Make him pay! Make him pay!” 

You paid Caracalla and the sound of thundering footsteps little mind, your full attention focused on Geta. Carefully, you led him to sit and began to take in his symptoms. His breathing was strained, and if the way he gripped his chest was anything to go by, his pulse was out of control. You pressed your fingers to his carotid artery, your suspicions quickly confirmed. 

“Symptoms, Caesar. Tell me what is happening,” You said, stern, but gentle.

Geta let out a warbling noise in the back of his throat and curled inward. “Did you not hear me? I cannot breathe!” 

“I know,” With your thumb, you pulled at his lips, inspecting for redness of lesions. There were none, and your eyebrows furrowed. “Have you vomited? Experienced dizziness?” 

“My stomach— stomach hurts,” He groaned between sharp inhales. 

Carefully, you examined him, poking at prodding at his face and body. Despite his symptoms, there were none of the usual indications of ingesting something dangerous. A realization tugged at you, and you felt your shoulders droop. Geta would not die, but this would not be easy. “Did you eat or drink?” 

“No, medicus, now heal me!” Geta barked before his voice fell into this terrible smallness, fear undercutting his desperation. “I do not want to die, Alga. Don’t let me die.”

Behind you, Caracalla let out a wail, holding his head tight between his hands. “Fix him, Alga! Fix my brother! That is what you are for, heal him! Heal him!” 

“He is not poisoned!” The quicker it was said, the faster you could calm both of them. “Emperor Geta will not die tonight, but he is not well. Call off the guards, Caracalla.” 

You flicked your wrist to shoo the guards at the door away to no avail. They continued to stand at attention, awaiting an order that may never come given both emperors' current states.

“What is the matter with him, then?” Caracalla shouted, furiously approaching. When he got closer, Geta startled, and jumped to his feet. Taking several shaking steps back, there was barely disguised terror on his features. Everytime Caracalla tried to get near, he would widen the distance once more. 

“Stay away from me, brother!”

“Why? Why should I listen to your commands when you can hardly control yourself?”

“Because I will only cause you pain. Stay away from me!” 

Caracalla froze, staring at his brother with narrowed eyes, though he no longer spoke. This gave you the opportunity to insert yourself between them and gently take Geta’s crumpled shoulders into your hands. “You need to breathe, Caesar. Do as I do.”

You tried to demonstrate even breathing, inhaling slowly through your mouth, then exhaling through your nose, only for Geta to rip himself from your grasp. “No! You stay away from me too!”

“No, not until you’re calm.” Pointing at the guards at the door, you shouted at Caracalla, “Send those men away!”

Thankfully, he listened, his sharp bark barely audible between the blood rushing in your ears and Geta’s breathing. 

“I deserve this, I deserve to suffer,” He exclaimed, placing his hands behind his neck and pulling his head down. Another keening noise left him, the sound bordering on a sob. “You will leave me, you will take my brother, or he will take you, and you will leave me alone. Hated! Despised!”

Caracalla had a mix of disgust and confusion on his face, his features scrunched. “I have never seen you cry before.” 

When you turned back to Geta, he lunged to grip your hands, desperation “Get him out! Make him leave! Don’t let him see me like this! Now, medicus, now!” 

“Caracalla, go,” You ordered. 

“We will not leave him,” He argued, throwing out one of his hands. “Why does Geta talk as though we will abandon him? He’s being stupid, tell him he’s being stupid, Alga.” 

With your hand still held in Geta’s, you felt him press his forehead against your fist. Barely audible, but you heard it, “Lies.” 

With a jerk of your head, you gestured to the door, though you tried to keep your expression soft. “Caracalla, go. Let me help Geta. I need to be alone with him.” 

Silence descended upon your bedroom, punctuated only by the sound of Geta’s gasping. Caracalla’s pupils flickered between you, standing tall, and Geta, hunched over and choking on sobs. He tensed, and you believed he would insist on staying, before he fixed you with a hard stare. “Make him better, or I will be very angry with you, Alga.” 

At least he had the wherewithal to close the door behind him when he left. 

Alone now, save for you, Geta fell to his knees and descended into a fit of weeping. He didn’t hug you, but his fingers dug into your ribcage as he buried his face into your stomach. 

“You were right,” He managed to choke out, muffled by the fabric of your tunic. Your hands found his hair, and like you did with Caracalla, you tried to soothe him by carding through the fiery strands. “I am becoming him. I am becoming my father. Let me die instead. Let the poison take me, I would rather that than let myself turn into a monster.”

“There is no poison, nor will I let you die,” You murmured. Another barked sob tore from his throat as he pulled you tighter against him. “You are having an attack. It is your mind causing you to experience these symptoms.”

“I am terrified.”

“Geta—”

He continued, uncaring that you were trying to speak, “Do not leave me. Never leave me. I beg of you, do not leave me alone, I will not survive it.” 

“I wouldn’t—”

“You would! Why can you not be mine too? Why must my brother have the one thing I cannot have?”

“I—”

“No! Do not tell me how much you hate me, I cannot take that now. Pretend you can stand me, pretend you can love me. Hold me as you would hold Caracalla. I will beg if I must, please—”

“I will.”

The conviction in your voice gave Geta pause. “What?”

“I will,” You repeated. “All I ask is that you breathe with me.”

“Yes— yes. Anything, so long as you lie to me a little longer…” He was cut off by another sob. 

Slowly, you filled your lungs, and with a shuddering breath, Geta followed. You held it for five seconds, then released it, petting the back of his head while he followed. The two of you remained like that for several minutes. Steadily, he began to calm, though his shoulders continued to jerk with barely stifled sobs. You knew he would be thoroughly humiliated by this display. He always kept himself in such tight control, the loss of that would make him furious with himself. It was important that you caught that before he fell into self-loathing. Geta was no stranger to brooding, you knew that well. 

He was the one who spoke first, his tone raw despite it being stable for the first time since he entered your room. “I don’t deserve this.”

“You do,” You said simply, causing him to shake his head. “Geta, do you think your father ever cried when he realized what he had done? I wasn’t… What I said to you, it wasn’t entirely true. I am a grown man, Caesar, you were a child, and he was your father. It is different.”

“I still struck you.” 

“You did.” Pulling him away from your stomach so you could look him in the eye, you placed your hands on either side of his face. “And I forgive you. Would you ever forgive your father?”

“No. Never,” He breathed. 

“Yet, I forgive you. Is that not proof enough that you are not him? You have the one thing he will never receive.” 

It almost seemed like he believed you before he swallowed it down. “I gave you that awful name.”

“Which one? Alga?” Confusion made you tilt your head to the side. 

He began to shake again, and you responded by slowly beginning to rock him. It helped, if only a little. “To call you something so cruel when you are anything but…”

“Geta, I like being called Alga. I do not care what it means, I like that you gave it to me,” You said with a small smile.

“You should not.” 

“Yet, I do.” Hefting him to his feet, you led him to your bed. He was unsteady, like a newborn fawn, his big, brown eyes fixated on you as if you were committing an act so strange. “Follow. It is time to rest.”

“What are you doing?”

“What I promised,” You said as you pressed him against the pillows. Geta let out a small huff, finally sounding like himself again. “Lay with me, Caesar.”

“Call me by my name.” There was an indignant note to his pleading as you gathered him in your arms. With his chin atop your head, he held you against his chest, fingers shaking as he mapped the contours of your face. You didn’t expect him to speak again until he did, “I am nothing without my brother, medicus. I have failed him too many times for him to ever truly forgive me. Do not—” Another sob squeaked through his clenched teeth, his arms tightening around you. “Do not leave me with nothing.” 

“Geta,” It was not the first time you called him by his name since he burst into your room, but it was the first you had done so knowingly. “I am not going to go anywhere. Neither is Caracalla.” You were rather sure he was far too codependent to even fathom the idea, though you kept that to yourself. “Sleep. We have much to discuss in the morning.” 

His chin knocked against your crown when he nodded. 

The two of you remained tangled for some time, and though you felt yourself relax, you could not sleep. Neither could Geta, it seemed. All he wanted to do was hold you, the only interruption to such a task coming in the form of the sunrise, or his jealous brother. The act made your chest flutter as the scent of roses filled your nose. 

Geta waited until he thought you were asleep to speak again. In truth, you nearly were, darkness spreading across your vision when you heard it. His fingers tightened in the fabric of your tunic, pressing you so close, you wondered if his ribcage would open up and engulf you. There was no denying it anymore. This was the final nail in the coffin, both a declaration and a confession whispered against the top of your head. 

“Meus vitus.”

A/N: First things first, meus vitus translates to ‘my life’ in Latin. Secondly, please don’t kill me with hammers. I know I probably deserve it after the angst slaughterhouse I just put Geta through, but god, it was so much fun to write. Please picture me, phone in hand, grinning evilly to myself while I tap away in my google docs. Yes, I’m aware I deserve tomatos thrown at me for my transgressions against Geta nation, but also… I have even more evil plans for arc two. This is NOTHING, I tell you. NOTHING.

I do think Geta skulking around Alga like a Dead By Daylight killer is so funny. You know damn well he thought his ass was hidden. Babygirl, you’re two inches off from being six feet tall, you’re climbable. You aren’t sneaky. He was literally like Rumplestiltskin in the Shrek movie, constantly in the background brooding miserably about hurting Alga. Because he does feel really bad about it. He’s just incapable of being vulnerable in any way unless he quite literally can’t control it. Hence why I had him have a panic attack of some kind. I hope he wasn’t too ooc…

Speaking of their fight, Alga is kind of very right here. It’s a deeply complex sort of conversation that’s very hard to have, and how it happened was not ideal. Though, considering Geta is a deeply insecure manchild, there is no possible way the conversation could ever go well. Even if he wasn’t the way he was, learning about how easy it is to continue that damned cycle is kind of a punch to the gut. It was one thing for Alga to… kind of throw his abuse in his face, that made him angry, and at first, he didn’t believe it. Alga’s perception of him hurt, but that didn’t mean it was true. That was, until he saw them cowering when he was about to throw a wax tablet at him, the very same way he had done with his father when he was young. That was when he realized how easy it was. And it’s not an easy realization to have when you’re emotionally mature and stable, two things Geta is not. It’s seriously such a complex moment that was incredibly hard to write and convey, I truly hope I did it justice.

If you noticed, he still hasn’t apologized for hitting Alga. Though, they did forgive him. I’m so serious, I genuinely think Geta is physically incapable of saying ‘I’m sorry,’ so as guilty as he feels, and his attempts to fix it, I don’t think we will ever get an apology out of him. Ever. :(

On a funnier note, Aelius is sooooo sick of hearing about Alga’s awful ass boyfriend. Being sick of your friends stupid manthing transcends time and space everybody. And, in line with that, you know how Justina was spying on Geta for Alga? Well, she was spying on Alga for Geta too. A lot less willingly, but Geta is very aware that Justina spends time with Alga, so he took that as a sign that she can keep an eye on them for him when he can’t. Along with that, he also probably complained about how much he “”hates”” Alga to her, and how awful they are, and how their stupid hair always catches his attention. Blah blah blah, she’s so sick of these gay people, I’m so serious.

Onto Caracalla, who, FOR ONCE, didn’t take over the chapter. I’m not sorry for loving him. I’ve been meaning to implement the ‘kitty’ nickname for him for a while now. I call him ‘Kittycalla’ with my friends, and I think it’s so very, very cute. He’s just a little kitty <33 And, his evil plan to get no work done is purposely reminiscent of that one Parks and Rec episode where April scheduled all of Ron’s meetings for that one day, thinking it was a fake day. That’s what Caracalla does. Don’t bother him until the Ides, and then everyone bothers him. He’s so mad about it.

Lastly, Caracalla did one hundo percent catch Geta and Alga cuddling. And, yes, he was jealous, but he didn’t throw a fit. For once. All he did was curl up on the other side of Alga and stare at his brother. And Geta stared back at him. The whole night. A knowing kind of look, mixed with anger, and envy, and a little bit of concern. Caracalla kind of realizes at this point he has to share Alga with Geta, and he’s not happy about it. But, for as complex as the twins’ relationship with each other is, I do think Caracalla does love Geta. Not the same doting love he affords Alga and Dondas, but the kind of sibling love where there’s no one he resents more than Geta, but there’s no one who understands him more than Geta. No matter what he does to him, his brother will always be there for him. Perhaps, just this one time, so hopefully Geta will never, ever request something of him again, Caracalla will relent. This once.

And!!! That’s it!!! Again, please don’t kill me, but also don’t hold back on your reaction to this chapter. It fuels me… As always, thank you for reading, it means so much to me!!! Until next time :3

tag list: @snazzynacho , @t6gse370 , @cherrysweets-world , @justlibra , @001mon

[bakedmandos]

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 12

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla decides to follow you to your twice daily check up on Marianus, which goes, surprisingly, much better than you expected. At least everyone’s head is still on their shoulders. What you’re really worried about it Geta, who seems to have stopped eating and sleeping recently…

Tags: Discussions of handjobs, mentions of masturbation, period typical slavery, medical inaccuracies, slightly self-harming behaviors involving not eating or sleeping (Geta), fight between you and Geta, he slaps and pushes you, you throw things at him. It’s crazy.

Word Count: 9.7k words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

At this rate, you were going to get carpal tunnel. Caracalla had an insatiable appetite for handjobs. Now that he had a taste of what you were willing to give, he couldn’t get enough of it. Every night, before he slept, he would drag you to bed in order to grind himself against your palm, enticing you further. 

Before now, you sort of expected the novelty of sex would quickly lose its appeal. Oh, how wrong you were. You hadn’t even gotten fucked yet and you were forgoing your nightly research in an effort to indulge him. He acted like your hand wrapped around his cock was the best thing to happen to humanity since the invention of the wheel. It did more for your ego than you’d like to admit. While you pretended like getting Caracalla off was an exasperating chore, you looked forward to stolen moments where he spirited you away, unable to contain his desire for you any longer. 

Quite honestly, you were dumbfounded. While you weren’t exactly ‘sexually experienced’ by any means, you were also near certain that a handjob was the bare minimum. Something a partner put up with when they couldn’t get the main course, and certainly not a satisfying dish in of itself. Caracalla, of course, seemed to think otherwise. Which was a relief despite the near constant ache between your legs from a lack of satisfaction — not that Caracalla didn’t try. 

You couldn’t complain too much, you were doing this to yourself. Every time his hands began to wander, or he’d whine for you to let him return the favor, you would refuse. At first, you thought you could hide away for a few minutes to eke out an orgasm by yourself. How naive you were. If Caracalla was glued to your side before, he may as well have sewn his skin to yours while you slept. Even when he had imperial duties to attend to, some poor soul seemed to jump at the opportunity to get the emperor’s medicus alone for a wound, or sickness of some sort. It was getting to the point where vagina be damned, you were willing to accept any sort of treatment so long as you got to have a decent orgasm. 

If you said any of this to Caracalla, you were sure he’d be harder than a steel beam. You only had so much self control left in you. Eye twitching, you gripped the vanity hard enough for your knuckles to go white. Do your affirmations. You would not give up the protections being a cis man afforded you for dick. That would be foolish, and you were not foolish. 

Maybe you were a little foolish. 

The memory of what you had just done made your face hot and shame squirm in your belly. Uncomfortable, you washed your own fluids off your hands in the basin, praying you were quiet enough that no one caught you. Only a few days had passed since your first date with your lover — his title, it made your heart do a flip — and finally, finally, you managed to find some time to jerk off in the bathroom like you were a teenager again. It wasn’t particularly satisfying, but it was better than nothing. At least you’d be able to focus on important matters rather than how miserably empty you felt. 

With a sigh, you exited the private washroom to continue about your day as if you hadn’t rubbed one out in record time. If you wanted to finish, you had to. Caracalla was sure to find you again soon, and the last interaction on your docket you wanted to deal with was explaining to him why you’d rather take care of yourself than allow him to do it for you. He would simply exclaim, ‘I do not care about your malformed cock!’ and stomp his foot like a child. There had been several close calls when he aimed to grope your crotch, only for you to scream bloody murder and swat him away. Each time, he seemed taken aback, as if this interaction hadn’t happened a million times before. Then, of course, he would remember and pout, but ultimately keep his hands to himself. To make up for crossing your boundaries, he would curl up against you with that horrible little grin, knowing damn well he would win this game of chicken because you’d forgive him every time. All he had to do was keep being your sweet, little kitty.

Damnable man. You didn’t know if, right now, you wanted to hit him with a rock or suck his dick more. Maybe both, though you still weren’t sure what order to go in. Knowing Caracalla, he’d be satisfied either way. It wasn’t as if he had brain cells to lose.

“I found you.” Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Flushing harder, memories of your illicit activity in the bathroom mere moments ago surged forward, making your face split ungracefully. Caracalla didn’t seem to notice, happily stepping into your personal space to take in the features he liked so much. “Naughty boy, hiding from your Imperator.”

Thankfully, he seemed more amused than irritated. “I wasn’t hiding, I had… important duties to attend to.”

“More important than attending to your lonely lover?” Caracalla finally noticed that you couldn’t meet his gaze, his brows furrowing. He narrowed his eyes as he studied your red face and mussed hair before realization dawned on him. Smirking, he took your hand in his own — the one that had been knuckle deep inside of you not long ago — and toyed with your fingers. “You minx, you satisfied yourself, didn’t you?”

“What? No! What gave you that idea?” The lie was clumsy off your tongue, only serving to stoke the flames of Caracalla’s teasing.

“My needy, needy medicus, you do this to yourself.” His other hand slid down your back to grope your ass. Your body was still sensitive, so you couldn’t help the shiver that crawled up your spine. “You want more, I can see it on your face. It will never be enough until it’s me who's bringing you pleasure.”

“How do you know that?” With a roll of your eyes, you pried yourself from Caracalla’s grasp. The only reason he allowed it was because you kept your fingers intertwined with his. He swung your arms as you walked. The two of you looked reminiscent of a pair of middle schoolers showing off their first relationship. It would be cute if you didn’t feel the eyes of every passerby boring into your skin. 

“Because no matter which whore I fucked, even if I called him by your name, even if I pretended he was you, it was never enough.” He spoke candidly and loudly, as if these weren’t private matters. You felt a few stares on you from denizens of the palace and grimaced as Caracalla spoke, “You’ll be desperate for my cock in no time.”

“You underestimate my resilience, Caesar.” You frowned as you kept your voice low in hopes Caracalla would take the hint.

He didn’t.

“Did you think of me when you fucked yourself?” Caracalla asked with the most frustratingly self-satisfied smirk on his face you had ever seen. 

Yes. In great detail. “No!”

Caracalla barked out a laugh, clearly aware that you were fibbing. You must be a worse liar than you thought if Caracalla, of all people, knew your tells. Or, maybe, he simply knew you. Your rebellious heart fluttered while you tried to keep your features stern. The loose hold you had on his hand did little to convince him that your displeasure was anything serious. 

“No need to be modest, Alga. I think of you all the time.” When you didn’t respond aside from a frustrated huff, he seemed to realize you had a destination in mind. Caracalla tugged at your hand in an effort to get you to stop, only for you to keep forward. “Where are we going?”

“I am going to the barracks to do my job. As for you, Caesar, I haven’t a clue.”

He frowned and pointedly looked at your joined hands. “You are the one dragging me along with you, Alga.” Letting out a dramatic sigh, his head flopped backwards in an exaggerated display. “Why must you be so fixated on your duties? No one will die if you take one break.”

“Says Emperor Sits-On-His-Ass,” You grumbled in English. Caracalla let go of you and boxed your ears in a childish display of fury. “Hey! You do not know what I said.” 

“I know an insult when I hear it!” 

“Well, I am a physician, Caesar. People may very well die if I take a day off.” Whipping around to face him, you hissed, careful not to alert anyone passing by, “Besides, I have already been shirking my duties more than necessary indulging your appetite, Caracalla.” 

Caracalla let out a ‘hmph’ before his foot shot out to kick you. You knew him well enough to see it coming and leapt out of the way, only serving to frustrate him further. “Spoken as if you aren’t the one moaning like a whore when I so much as kiss you.”

Unable to find a half decent response, you stuck your tongue out at him. Before you could regret it, his hand shot out to grip the offending appendage between his thumb and forefinger. With a jerk, he forced you to stumble forward, your mouth open and drool seeping from your lips. Caracalla didn’t look happy and pinched a little harder, earning a pained whine and your fingers around his wrist. 

“Wet go,” You demanded.

Caracalla tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “As punishment for your disrespect, perhaps I’ll have your tongue removed.”

All you did was let out a huff. You knew when to tell when he was genuinely angry, and when he was mildly frustrated. This was an empty threat if you ever heard one. “Cawacawwa.”

Irritation gave way to a glimmer of fondness as he let you go to nuzzle his cheek against yours. Caracalla was smiling now, his stubble rough against your skin. Despite your aching tongue, you cradled the other side of his face with your palm with only a hint of exasperation.

“Everyone is afraid of me,” He murmured, his voice hot against the shell of your ear. “They act as though I am a terrible beast. Not you, Alga. Not my medicus. You know me.”

You gave him a small peck that he tried to deepen. Pulling away, you pressed on his nose to keep him from following and he began to glare at you again. This time, his anger was a bit more palpable. 

“I know that if I was anyone else, you would make good on that threat,” You said.

“Being the emperor's lover has its advantages, does it not, my Alga?” Still frustrated, he patted you on the cheek harder than necessary. “You are the only man alive able to toy with me.”

Caracalla was still following you, a fact that was not ideal given where you were heading. While you were hesitant to be caught in the barracks during your twice daily check ups on Marianus, it wasn’t exactly a secret where you wandered off to when you found some time to yourself. Not like before, at least. Both Geta and Caracalla were aware that your duties extended to the man who nearly died to save you, though neither have commented on it. You hadn’t explicitly told Caracalla that was where you were going yet. You were starting to believe he was unaware. He was in far too good of a mood for that.

That wouldn’t last, unfortunately. 

“I’m honored, Caesar,” You intoned despite your lips playfully quirking upwards. He gave your hand a hard squeeze when you spoke his title, and you quickly amended that. “Caracalla, you are aware of what I’m off to do, correct?”

With an imperial frown, Caracalla regarded you with an air of protectiveness. It had only been a little over a week since your attempted kidnapping, you supposed it was still fresh for him. “No, that is why I am following you.”

“I am off to perform my checkup on the soldier who saved my life.” When he didn’t respond, his eyes distant as he tried to figure out who you were talking to, you provided, “Lucius Marianus.”

It took Caracalla a beat to remember who that was. As expected, his face fell into fury and he tugged on your arm to draw you away from the barracks. “No! That mongrel does not deserve your care! Let him die!” 

“Marianus is my friend and he saved my life,” You deadpanned, entirely unmoved by his outburst. Wrenching yourself from his grasp, you tried to ignore his closed mouthed scream as he scampered after you. 

Two hands wrapped around your middle. Caracalla buried his heels into the smooth marble floor, trying to keep you from continuing. It did little to sway you, both physically and emotionally. “No! He will only hurt you, Alga, can you not see that? He is not to be trusted! You will come away with me.”

“No, I will not!” You pried Caracalla’s arms away from you so you could face him. “Either you will come with me, or you will not, but I will do my job either way.”

The second you were free, his hands latched back onto your wrists. “And leave you at his mercy? You are a fool to think I would allow that, Alga! If you insist on this incessant stubbornness, then I will make certain your misplaced generosity does not go unpaid!” 

A huff left you as Caracalla’s grip on you tightened. “Fine. Join me, Caesar—”

“Caracalla!” He corrected. 

“Caracalla. But I want you to be good.”

“I will act as it befits my status as emperor,” He argued, because, of course, he would. 

You felt yourself soften against your will. Though you were surrounded on all sides by people — who, to their credit, did well to ignore you and Caracalla’s argument — your gaze flickered to his mouth. Where he couldn’t get enough of your hand, you couldn’t get enough of his lips. If you knew kissing was so nice, you probably would have tried it sooner. Although, you wondered if you liked it so much because of what it was, or due to who you were with. 

Caracalla smirked when he saw where your pupils had strayed. “Melimelum, don’t be shy. You can take what you want from me no matter who watches.”

Keeping your relationship a secret was an effort in futility. The entire palace knew — hell, all of Rome knew — and half the reason why was because Caracalla didn’t have the sense to be subtle. Still, public displays of affection were new to you, and you weren’t particularly comfortable with—

His lips were on yours, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip that you stubbornly pressed closed. Caracalla was disappointed when he pulled away, his eyebrows furrowed. “You are such a prudish lover.” 

“And you are worse than a cat in heat.”

Satisfied now, if only a little, he allowed you to take his hand once more. You ducked your head, unable to meet any of the gazes you passed without a bright flush on your face. Some of your patients had brought up your relationship with Caracalla before. One of his concubines had visited with a sore on his shoulder he couldn’t stop picking at. A man who introduced himself as Fabius. He was soft-spoken, the sweet kind, so his joke about you keeping Caracalla busy hit you like a runaway train. 

“That man has an appetite unlike any other,” Fabius had said with a smile as you packed his wound with a hot face. “It is nice to indulge in other activities aside from satiating a starved man.”

Later that day, a slave who worked in the kitchen, named Attia, had come for you to stitch a cut in her hand. At first, you worked in companionable silence, only for her to break it once you were done, “These stitches are superb, medicus!”

You had laughed before you began to write down aftercare instructions on a wax tablet. Truthfully, you had thought little of the comment. “Did you expect otherwise?” When you glanced up at her, she refused to look at you. Her guilty expression gave her away. Letting out a sigh, you handed her the tablet. “I am good at what I do. I cannot help whose affections I am subjected to. Please inform others of my skill and that my clinic is open to them as well.” 

“Yes, medicus. Sorry, medicus.” 

Perhaps Geta was right, you found yourself thinking as you watched her leave. No one would take you seriously as a physician if you were also Caracalla’s ‘puer.’ 

Later, when your thoughts were less jumbled, you decided it didn’t matter. All it meant was that you would have to try harder to prove yourself worthy of the title you were given. 

“I am a lion, melimelum,” Caracalla interrupted your thoughts with a low growl. “Perhaps I should demonstrate why I am considered as such.”

With an arm around his shoulders, you ignored him and led him into the barracks. He took that well enough, simply narrowing his eyes at you instead of pushing. It was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. Usually, Caracalla hardly ever gave into your whims, his own taking precedence. You sighed. Thankfully, it seemed he was somewhat trainable. After all, he still had yet to discover your secret despite how desperately he wanted you. So long as you kept indulging most of his whims, you would be in the clear. 

For now. 

You were very aware this charade wouldn’t last much longer, Caracalla was impulsive and selfish. He would discover the truth of your genitalia, eventually. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t continue to put it off until you couldn’t anymore. 

The first soldier who saw him saluted, and the second took off deeper into the barracks to warn others of Caracalla’s arrival. He preened beside you, pleased by the submission of the trained soldiers who called these halls home. Instead of joining him, you let out an embarrassed sigh and turned your gaze to the floor. 

Caracalla let out a displeased hum, hooking a finger under your chin and tilting your head upward “Hold your head high, dulcis. You belong to an emperor.”

Belong. It shouldn’t have made your face flush as hot as it did. “I do not want others to look up to me, Caesar. I wish to stand as their equal.” 

“You are so odd, melimelum.” The term of endearment was watered down by the expression of sheer perplexment on Caracalla’s face. Shaking his head, he let out a small, fond laugh and intertwined your fingers once more. “You are lucky I find your strangeness so enticing.”

You really should let go of his hand, but the affection was so innocent, you couldn’t bring yourself to. Knotted together so tight, your sides were brushing, you and your emperor strode into the guard’s quarters. Where Caracalla was proud, practically looking down his nose at whoever was foolish enough to meet his gaze, you were awkward, far too nervous to relax under so many eyes. He gave your hand a questioning — or reassuring, you weren’t sure — squeeze before you inhaled a steadying breath and headed in the direction of Marianus. 

In order to get him back to the barracks, he had to be carried in a stretcher. As much as you wanted to keep him in your clinic, the way it was set up was only for short term stays rather than long term. It was a fact you intended to remedy soon, but for now, you decided somewhere familiar with more men to watch him would be better for him in the long run. 

You kept a small stash of medical supplies in his bunk, one he shared, only with Aelius now. Apparently, his pained groans had driven his other roommates away. Frowning, you glanced at Caracalla out of the corner of your eye. Was it really a good idea to bring him along? Marianus was sure to be in immense pain considering the invasive surgery he went through a little over a week ago. Devil’s breath helped, though not as good as opium. You had been alternating between the two, only using the latter in dire situations so as not to cause Marianus to develop an addiction. Withdrawals from opioids were no joke, it wasn’t something you would wish on your worst enemy, let alone a friend.

A breath left you when you turned a familiar corner, Marianus’ bunk only a few paces away. You paused and gave Caracalla’s hand a pinch to get his attention. “Promise me you will not be cruel to Marianus.”

“I will do as I please, Alga,” Came his predictable response. Before you could start to grumble and walk away, Caracalla tugged you back to him. “I will not call for his head, if that is what you are so worried about.”

Placing a quick peck to his cheek, you thanked him, causing Caracalla to give you a boyish smile that quickly melted away the moment he caught sight of Marianus. He was in an elevated position in his bunk, no shirt save for the bandages wrapped tightly around his abdomen. There was no blood or pus on the fabric, much to your relief, though he seemed about as pleased as Caracalla to see you brought company. 

You released Caracalla’s hand to rummage through the supplies you kept under Aelius’ bunk. “Hello, my friend, how is your pain today?” 

“Bad enough for me to wish you had let me die, medicus,” Marianus said, not taking his eyes off of Caracalla. It was the same response you had been getting since the surgery. At first, it made guilt swell in the back of your throat. Now, you paid it little mind.

“Perhaps he should have.” Caracalla’s voice was like steel as he stood in the doorway. 

You gave him a pointed look. He didn’t blanch, simply clenching his fists tighter by his sides. This was a bad idea. “Devil’s breath for today, Marianus. Then, I will clean and check the site of the incision. We should be able to remove the stitches soon, my friend.” 

“My friend,” Caracalla mocked under his breath as he threw himself into a nearby chair. 

You ignored him, though Marianus seemed to be viscerally uncomfortable. With careful hands, you removed the bandages around his abdomen to gauge the healing process. Relief made your shoulders slump when you saw only minor signs of inflammation, a symptom you could easily treat with the herbs at your disposal. You felt Caracalla’s presence over your shoulder, fascination leaking from his every pore, and slapped his hand away from Marianus’ body before you had time to think.

“Hands off, Caesar. He does not need an infection.” 

“Well, I think he does…” Caracalla muttered. He paused for a moment before he smacked the back of your hand in retaliation. “I should hit you harder for your transgression, but I fear that you would like it.”

Your face erupted into a dark flush, eyes darting between Caracalla and a disgruntled Marianus. “Caesar!” 

He stared at Marianus for far too long, the wheels of his mind visibly churning. Caracalla seemed to come upon an idea as his grin returned, vicious as ever. “I am unsure if you are aware, Lucius Marianus—” He spit his name out like it tasted vile “— But Alga is my lover now!” 

“Is he?” Marianus intoned, and you shrunk over the sheer disapproval coming off of him in waves.

“Yes, is that not right, Alga?” Caracalla gave you a harsh shake.

Stuttering, you managed to find your words, “I— I was going to tell you eventually.” 

Caracalla continued, unmoved by your humiliation, “That means that if you ever make my medicus unhappy, I will have you drowned in hemlock! And me and Alga will laugh and fuck upon your grave!” 

“We will not do that,” You quickly added.

“We will!” Caracalla drew himself to his full height — which wasn’t particularly intimidating in of itself — puffed up like a cat. To your dismay, he looped his arm inside the crook of your elbow and yanked you against his side. “If you ever steal away my beloved’s happiness, I will have you executed!” 

To his credit, Marianus merely blinked at the two of you, his lips pursed. “I will keep that in mind, Caesar.”

“It would do you well too!”

Gently, you extricated yourself from him to continue with your treatment, a little rougher than necessary given your embarrassment. It took a few tries to remove his arm from yours, Caracalla letting out huff after huff each time you tried to free yourself from him. Eventually, he gave up, flopping down on Aelius’ bunk to glare up at the bed above him. Good, at least you could focus now.

Marianus gave you a stare that said one thousand words and you felt yourself shrink inwards. “I am going to have Aelius replace the bandages later so that the incision can breathe.” 

“Medicus,” Marianus began. “I worry about you.” 

That was all that needed to be said. You wanted to explain yourself, to tell him just how much your heart yearned for Caracalla, but you knew that would only dig the hole deeper. A bit of awkwardness crept into your frame as you shifted from foot to foot. “There is no need to worry about me.”

“You know that does nothing to assuage me.”

“I know,” You murmured. 

“What are you two muttering about,” Caracalla griped from behind you.

Though you didn’t look, you heard him turn, sure to be watching you and Marianus with greener eyes than usual. “I will tell you later.”

“I expect it!” He would forget within the hour. 

Once your examination was complete, you gently cleaned the wound, and you were done. In a few days, you would be able to remove the sutures. Thankfully, the ones holding his lungs together didn’t seem to be causing any irritation, though you were certain his lifespan was significantly lowered due to any complications that could arise. No matter, at least Marianus was here now, practically radiating disappointment in regards to your love life. Better that than dead. 

When you stood and began to put away your supplies, Caracalla perked up. “Are we done, Alga? I’m bored.”

You gave Marianus one last nod in farewell, a bit more subdued than usual. When Caracalla intertwined his fingers with yours, you winced, shame bubbling in your gut. Unfortunately for you, he noticed. 

“Why do you flinch when I touch you?” Caracalla demanded, his grip on you tightening. The two of you were only a foot away from Marianus’ room, and you were sure he could hear you. “What did that animal say to you to make you frightened of me?”

“Caracalla, I am not afraid of you.” To punctuate your point, you slotted yourself into his side, making his posture loosen. “I… I do not know how to describe it.” 

His gaze softened, though his eyes were slits as he squared his shoulders. “Well, I command you to.”

“Lucius Marianus is…” Swallowing hard, you tried to keep your voice low so that the man in question couldn’t hear your humiliating confession. “He is everything I have ever wanted in a father. His… feelings upon the matter of our courtship are very important to me.” 

“His approval is what you are so worried about?” Caracalla raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching downward. “What greater honor is there than the attention of an emperor? Of course he approves of me!” 

“Caracalla, you and Emperor Geta were going to have him executed barely a week ago.”

“Yes, and? We didn’t, as per your request, medicus.” 

You let out a sigh and decided to drop the matter entirely. Leaning forward, you gave Caracalla a chaste kiss, his hands finding your hips with ease. “I love you, my Imperator.”

With those words, Caracalla was putty in your hands. He gave you a grin, gold tooth peeking out, fingers kneading your flesh. “And I love you, my medicus.”

He was so easy, it should be embarrassing. All it did was fill you with a heaping of affection. Maybe you were easy as well. Then again, he wasn’t the one with an emperor wrapped around his finger, all he had was a talented physician at his beck and call. Even then, you didn’t always give in. You had a stubbornness to rival his own. 

“We should go somewhere private, melimelum,” Caracalla murmured, his eyes dark with lust. “Your words do terrible things to me.”

You could hardly respond before he pulled your hand forward to cup his half-hard cock through his tunic. He twitched when he felt you brush against him, your touch tentative given your location. Noncommittally, you said, “I can feel that.”

He wasn’t fast enough to stop you from pulling away. His forehead pressed against your shoulder as he let out a shaky breath. “Damnable tease.”

“Caesar, there you are.” Justina’s voice made you jump, your hands flying to hide behind your back. If you blushed more than you have already today, you weren’t sure if your face would ever go back to its normal shade. 

Without lifting his face from your shoulder, he snarled between clenched teeth. “What do you want? Can you not see that I am preoccupied?”

When it came to you, he was always preoccupied. You could see exasperation written all over her face, quickly schooled before he could notice it. Ever the professional, Justina ignored your proximity with Caracalla, used to it by now. “Senator Thraex has requested your presence specifically, Caesar.”

That got Caracalla’s attention. Yours as well. From what you remembered of Senator Thraex, you didn’t like the idea of leaving your easily manipulable Caracalla alone with him. 

“And what of my brother?” 

“Busy elsewhere, Caesar.”

His lips brushed against your jawline, excitement sparkling in his eyes. It wasn't often that he was called on without his brother. “Stay needy, Alga, your Imperator has important duties to attend to.” You opened your mouth to remind him who the needy one was, only for him to cut you off, “Slave, where is Senator Thrice waiting?”

“Thraex, Caesar. There is a slave waiting outside of the barracks to lead you to him.” 

Caracalla didn’t wait a moment longer, only stopping to adjust his tunic around his crotch. You watched him disappear, leaving you alone with Justina and the few soldiers meandering around the barracks at this time of day. Also known as the worst gossips in the empire. You felt yourself shrink ever so slightly without your shadow at your heels. 

“Medicus.” Justina took a step forward and lowered her voice. Despite her status in the palace, you were kind to her, as you were with every slave you came across. It made her comfortable enough to confide in you, which you were very grateful for. She had the eyes and ears of a hawk. “Have you checked on Emperor Geta as of recent?” 

You bit back a grimace. Ever since the day of your date with Caracalla, you noticed Geta had been avoiding you. Which wasn’t new by any stretch of the word. You were content with allowing it to happen, more so than usual considering the absolutely hateful miasma he was exuding every time you caught a glimpse of him. Everytime you caught his eye, his face would pucker as if he ate something sour, barely contained fury suffocating anyone in a thirty foot radius. 

“He seems to be in a foul mood,” You said.

Justina probed further, “Have you kept an ear out? Listened to the birds?”

“What are you saying?”

With a sigh, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I only speak so candidly because I know you will not take offense, but you are painfully oblivious, medicus. At least I know you are not neglecting the other Caesar out of cruelty.” 

You took a few steps forward, worry exploding in your chest. Carefully, you took Justina’s hands in your own and implored her to elaborate. “Is something wrong with Emperor Geta? Is he unharmed?”

As frustrating as Geta was, you would never wish him ill. He was your friend too, even if the feeling wasn’t mutual. Reciprocity didn’t matter to you, either way, you would care for him.

It was why you felt your heart sink at what Justina said next, “For now. According to the slaves in his attendance, he has not eaten or slept in days.”

“What?! Where is he?” For once, you didn’t care about being loud. As soon as you found out his location, you were on the move. With Justina at your side, you marched out of the barracks and towards Geta’s office, a maelstrom of emotions at war inside of you. Concern was winning, though the runner up was frustration. What was he thinking? He was already far too skinny and far too stressed as it was. “Justina, have some porridge and a plate of olives brought to his office. I will convince him to eat.”

“If anyone in the empire could convince either Caesar to do what they didn’t want to, it would be you,” She said dryly as she split from you to make her way to the kitchens. 

It didn’t take long for you to arrive at Geta’s office, nor did you bother to knock. You probably should have, if Thraex was here for Caracalla, then, for all you knew, Geta was in a meeting with a fellow senator. That wasn’t at the forefront of your mind. All you could think was how absolutely imbecilic Geta was being and how you were nauseated with barely contained worry. 

“Caesar!” Geta whipped around from where he was hunched over at his desk, his lip curling at the sight of you. He looked gaunt, his cheeks sunken with dark circles under his eyes. It only made your heart ache even more. Enough so, that his obvious displeasure at being interrupted did little to slow you down. “Look at you! By the gods, tell me what I have heard is not true!” 

Terror flashed across Geta’s face before it hardened into its usual steel, though it lacked the fire you would normally see in him. He was too exhausted to even hate you. This was truly dire. “What is the meaning of this, Alga? Is fucking my brother enough for you to believe you are allowed to go wherever you please? This is my private office!” 

“I am your physician, Caesar, privacy means little to me.” Taking a few steps forward, you narrowed your eyes and began your examination. Simply by looking at him, you could tell he had lost a few pounds. Frustration loosened your tongue. “Wait until your prostate exam where I shove a finger up your behind, that will show you.”

Geta gasped, affronted. Perhaps you shouldn't have said that. “You will do no such thing!”

“I will do whatever I believe to be necessary!” While Geta opened his mouth to argue, you rushed forward to get a better look at him. His jaw snapped shut when your fingertips found his chin, gently tilting his head from side to side as you appraised him. Underneath his makeup was a speckle of acne. The breakout betrayed his lack of self care. His cheeks were sunken in, and the longer you touched him, the more of a pinkish tinge his face took. 

He seemed to remember himself enough to swat you away in a frenzy. “Get back, Alga! Cease your nonsense at once.”

“Cease my nonsense?” Undeterred, you placed your hands on your hips and stared him down. “I’m not the one who hasn’t been taking care of himself. Tell me why I heard you haven’t been sleeping, Caesar.”

“None of your business, you wretched shrew!” With a huff, he turned his back to you to fixate back on his notes. Red hair parted behind his fingers as he hunched his shoulders. “Begone with you, Alga. I was fine without you before, I do not need you now.”

You let out a breath and tried a softer approach. Geta jumped when you kneeled next to his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Caesar, listen to me. I am worried about you. It hurts me to hear you are suffering, so please, let me take care of you.”

His adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, dark eyes taking you in with an air of disbelief. As if he didn’t believe you were real, he placed his palm over the one settled on his shoulder and ran his thumb along your knuckles. The gentle touch sent a shiver down your spine, strangely familiar in its tenderness. “It means that much to you, medicus?” 

“Yes. It does.” You felt Geta’s fingers tighten around yours as he drew in a shuddering breath. “Caesar, I— Geta, you are a dear friend to me, even if it is not always mutual. Let me help you.”

At that, he let the contact fall away, his expression sterner than before. Vulnerability never lasted long for him. Still, he was far more pliant than you were used to. 

“Friend. Yes, I recall you calling me that, Alga.” His tone was harsh, but only for a second before exhaustion leaked in. “… I suppose I could use a nap.”

“No one would fault their emperor for resting when he needs it, least of all his physician,” You said with a laugh. 

Oddly enough, the sound of your laughter only caused his hard edges to round even more. He patted your head as you rose to your feet, his fingertips catching on your cheek before falling away entirely. “You should stay.”

That caught you off guard. While you didn’t mind it, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself while Geta slept, likely on the lectus pressed against the window. You began to respond only for a knock at the door to cut you off. “That would be the food.”

“What food?” 

Ignoring him, you padded over to the door and took the bowl of porridge and plate of olives from the slave who brought it. As the aroma filled the room, you heard Geta’s stomach growl. He clutched his stomach, an offended look on his face given how his body had betrayed him. All you could do was laugh.

“Hungry, Caesar?”

A flicker of disappointment crossed his expression when he heard his title, though it was quickly replaced by tiredness. “What is this?”

Pushing the tablets and papyrus to the side, you set the food down in its place. “Porridge, filling and it sticks to your ribs, and olives, your favorite.”

“How do you know olives are my favorite?” He questioned, poking at the grain with his spoon.

A flush darkened your cheeks. “I watch you sometimes. You seem to really like them.”

“Yes.” Geta’s cheeks twitched as he regarded you out of the corner of his eye. “I am rather fond of green things.”

Silence filled the room while Geta ate with small, sleepy bites as his eyelids began to droop. To keep him awake, you stood behind him and massaged his shoulders. Everytime his chin would fall, you would pinch him. It was enough for him to get halfway through his meal, at least. You still didn’t know why he stopped taking care of himself in the first place. Worst of all, you couldn’t believe how you hadn’t noticed. Caracalla kept you preoccupied, and you felt guilty for allowing Geta’s health to fall to the wayside. 

“Caesar, what happened?”

Geta’s response was mumbled, “What ever do you mean, Algacula?”

“You stopped taking care of yourself,” You clarified. Carefully, you helped Geta to his feet and allowed him to lean against you while you led him to the lectus. Each step was slow, his exhaustion seeming to catch up with him. A noise of surprise left you when Geta’s head rested atop yours and his breathing began to even out.

“Nightmares,” He finally said.

“Of what?”

You moved like Geta was made of glass. With a tender touch, you laid him on his side on the lectus. When the sun hit his eyes, his face scrunched up, only to relax when you closed the curtains. Unsure of what else to do, you threaded your fingers through his hair in an effort to lull him to sleep.

A part of you didn’t expect him to respond, and when he did, you wished he hadn’t.

“You.”

For once, you felt yourself falter. 

Lost in thought, you remained by Geta’s side while he slept. Despite his unconscious state, he leaned into your touch as you continued to play with strands of his fiery hair. It reminded you of the sunset, though you’d never dare tell him that. Every so often, he would murmur your name — Alga, not your real one — and your heart would sink lower. 

Geta had nightmares of you. The thought shouldn’t make you feel as sick as it did. Maybe that’s why he disliked you so much, your presence plagued him even when he slept. When his eyebrows would furrow, you would smooth out the creases in his forehead with your thumb. To your surprise, a gentle touch helped to relax him, a fact you would have never believed before now. Geta always seemed so averse to being handled, you always avoided it if you could help it. Now, though, he seemed to seek it out. If you weren’t so miserable knowing that you were the cause of his distress, you would have found the notion sweet. 

His face was smooth, skin devoid of stubble, likely from daily plucking. How he could stand it was beyond you. Your fingertips explored the expanse of his face, tracing the dark circles under his eyes and following the stress induced wrinkles he had despite his age. He couldn’t be much older than you were. 

A part of you wished he had eaten more. You stood, leaving Geta’s side, to investigate how much he had eaten. Two spoonfuls of the porridge and half of the olives. Frowning, you turned to Geta again, another mumble of ‘Alga’ on his lips, and your chest ached. What had you done to haunt him this badly? You knew you weren’t on the best of terms with him, but this was ridiculous.

Then, it hit you like a train. The party. Oh, god, you had gotten drunk at that damn party and said something unforgivable to Geta. Worst of all, you couldn’t remember it, so you couldn’t properly apologize. A puff of air left you when you dumped yourself on the floor next to the lectus Geta was asleep on. His hand was hanging off the edge, and in order to keep yourself busy while you plotted your grand apology, you began to massage his palm. It was soothing in a way, and, if his sigh was any indication, it helped him too. 

For about an hour, you remained next to Geta, listening to the sound of his breathing. His pupils fluttered behind his eyelids, indicating he had fallen into REM, which helped you relax a little more. You decided that you would simply apologize. Tell him the truth that you didn’t remember what you had done, but you were truly sorry. Even drunk, you were certain that you would never want to hurt him, even if the wine had loosened your tongue. Maybe he would tell you what you said, and you could finally stop self-flagellating over this. A low groan left you as you pressed the back of Geta’s hand against your forehead. His knuckles dug into your flesh. Thankfully, he didn’t stir.

“I’m such an idiot,” You muttered, your knees curled against your chest. 

If only you just— just— ugh!

“Medicus,” A whisper from above caused you to jump. The feminine tone made you realize it wasn’t Geta, much to your relief. You didn’t want to sway his forgiveness with your own self hatred. Attia — the one who had visited your clinic before — was staring down at you, eyes alight with worry and blood on her front. “Please help, there’s been an accident.”

You were on your feet before she could blink, curling Geta’s hand against his chest. In order to not disturb him, you kept your voice low. “What has happened?”

“Grumio has cut a vein in his wrist working in the kitchens and he will not stop bleeding. We have tried everything. We have already taken him to your clinic.” Her voice became tighter, tears swimming in her eyes. “He is so pale…”

“Lead me to him. Now.”

Geta’s request for you to not leave him fell to the wayside. Surely, he would remain sleeping until you returned, none the wiser that you had left in the first place. In order to remain quiet, you kept your footsteps light and turned the door knob as you closed it. It wouldn’t take long for you to arrive at your destination. Geta’s office was near his quarters, and your clinic was even closer. 

Once inside, your examination only took seconds. Laceration to the radial artery, severe blood loss already given the pallor of Grumio’s skin, if suturing the artery closed wouldn’t work, an amputation would be necessary. Two other slaves stood by him, one using a bundle of cloth to place pressure on the wound. With every beat of Grumio’s heart, blood spurted from his open artery, turning the fabric red.

“When did this happen?” You ordered, all pleasantries lost in the face of such a severe injury.

“A few minutes ago,” The woman who brought you here murmured, the other was too afraid to speak. 

A frown made your lips pull. “Blood loss is already at a critical level, who here knows how to make a tourniquet?”

The frightened man raised his hand and you turned your instructions to him while you readied your tools. A cauterizing surgical poker was placed in the hearth while you disinfected your needle. “Make one just below the cut to slow the bleeding. The tighter, the better.”

“Yes, medicus!” 

It was time to get to work. 

While you had to be careful when suturing an artery closed, this wasn’t a particularly complex surgery. The only hump you had to face was that it had to be a quick one. The human body only had so much blood to lose before it shut down. Before the tourniquet slowed flow, allowing you to work, Grumio had lost quite a bit of it. You used opium to dull the pain. When that didn’t work, you had his friends hold him still while your needle pierced his flesh. Unfortunately, such an act wasn’t a hard one. Blood loss had made him sluggish, his face clammy and lacking warmth. Not enough for you to think he would die, but enough for you to be concerned. 

You were nearly done when a variable you hadn’t expected to contend with threw open the door to your clinic. In your arms, Grumio barely mustered a flinch, his worried friends huddled nearby as they watched you work. Even when a gasp, and a quiet, ‘Caesar,’ were audible, you didn’t bother to check which one it was. All of your attention was focused on the task at hand, making sure your work was tight enough to staunch the blood flow, while keeping the artery intact so that amputation was unnecessary. 

“Alga!” It was Geta if that harsh bark was anything to go by. You didn’t bother to check, steady as you needed to be. Even when he stomped forward, snapping his fingers beside your ear, you didn’t give him the attention Geta seemed to crave. “Alga! Look at me when I am speaking to you!” 

“I am almost done, Caesar,” You murmured, much to his unending irritation. 

Geta growled and placed his hand on your forehead, forcing you to meet his furious gaze. Your own anger flared to match his as you shook yourself out of his grasp and focused back on Grumio. “Now, you wretch, now! I demand your attention, now!”

“You are a grown man, not a child! You should know how to wait,” You snapped. Finally, despite his intrusion, you tied off the final stitch and wrapped a linen cloth around the wound. Before you addressed the emperor, you focused your attention on the slaves — who were practically cowering in Geta’s presence. “Make sure he drinks water and consumes red meat to encourage blood production so as to replace what he has lost. Keep an eye on his hand, if it becomes numb or pale, fetch me immediately.”

“Slaves do not get red meat, Alga,” Geta sneered.

The only acknowledgment you gave him was a glare out of the corner of your eye. “They do today. By order of the imperial physician, feed that man as I have prescribed.” You didn’t allow Geta time to argue. With a jerk of your head, you gestured to the door. “Go, now. I will handle our Caesar.”

They didn’t need to be told twice. With two people holding up Grumio’s armpits, and one holding his feet, they dragged him past Geta and into the hall, sparing neither you nor him a glance. You were left alone with a furious emperor with only your anger as your defense. 

“How dare you,” He hissed, drawing up to his full height and jabbing a finger against your chest. 

You tilted your chin to meet his gaze. “How dare I, what? How dare I do my job? How dare I save a life?”

“How dare you supersede my orders, Alga!” He all but shrieked. “These are my slaves, this is my palace, and this is my empire, and you dare to speak over me?”

“When it comes to matters of health, I know better than you do. We both know this.” A bit haughty, you began to clean and pack your supplies, but not before washing Grumio’s blood from your hands. Geta followed you, his robes billowing behind him with every step.

When you wouldn’t turn to look at him, he grabbed your wrist and jerked you around to face him. “Look at me when I speak to you!” 

Clenching your jaw, you turned your harsh expression to meet his. “If that is what my high and mighty Imperator desires.” 

Your jab did nothing to calm Geta, his grip became even tighter, almost bruising. “Where did you go?” 

“What?” 

Louder now, he repeated, “Where did you go?! I ordered you to remain with me, and you disobeyed. You left me!” 

“I had a patient!” Furious, you tried to wrench yourself free, only for him to hold onto you tighter. “Let go!”

“So a slave matters more to you than I do, Alga! Is that how little you think of me?” 

“A patient who was at risk of dying took precedence, yes. Is that what you wanted to hear, Caesar, because it’s the truth.”

“Why do you refuse to call me by my name?” Geta demanded suddenly.

The topic change made your head spin. “What?”

Geta released you and began to pace like a caged animal. “Why do you despise me so much? I give you everything! I would do anything for you, but you don’t see that. You are blinded by my brother!” 

“What are you talking about?”

“You know!” He whirled around to jam his finger against your chest. “I know you know, so don’t pretend to be stupid. You love him, he told me you said so himself! You pathetic, heartsick, creature, Caracalla will never understand the depths of your affection!” 

“I don’t care about any of that!” You screamed back, white hot anger boiling in the back of your throat. “Is this how you treat your friends? It’s no wonder why you have none!”

“My friend? I have friends, Alga, but you are nothing more than the dirt beneath my heel!” Punctuating his point, he pushed you, forcing you to stumble back as he advanced. There was a desperate note to his tone now, his eyes imploring you to understand as he buried his fingers into your upper arms. “I need you! I need you, don’t you see that? And yet you spend your days with my brother! You are nothing more than one of his whores!”

A whore? That was how little he thought of you. Not a friend, but a worm, a grub, a squirming, miserable little creature who he could stomp on to his heart’s desire. 

“You wonder why I like Caracalla more than you, Caesar—” You spit his title at his feet. “But he would never treat me like this. You are a miserable and lonely man, who everyone fears, but never likes because you are selfish. No wonder the senate hates you. No wonder the people despise you. You are nothing more than a child with laure—”

A slap rang out, his open palm cracking against your cheek and whipping your head to the side. Unbidden, tears sprung in your eyes as blood dripped down your face. One if his rings had cut you, though the pain was secondary to the betrayal that threatened to seize your lungs. It was obvious you had gone too far. You knew how he felt about his unpopularity with the people, but he slapped you. Geta had put his hands on you, called you a whore, told you how little he thought of you, anything you could have said waned in the face of that. Steeling your features, you glowered up at him.

“Get fucked, Geta.” 

Taken aback, Geta’s gaze was fixated on the cut he had left behind. If you were calmer, you would have been able to see the regret on his face, but all you could focus on was what he said next. “You are the one who forced me to do that! You forced my hand. This is all your fault!” 

That only made you angrier. You grabbed a cup and chucked it at him. “Get out!” 

“Do not throw things at me, Alga!” When he cowered, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. You ripped open your desk drawer to pull out a wax tablet. Like a frisbee, you threw that at him too. “Listen to me when I speak!”

“Or what?” The more you spoke, the more strangled your tone became. Tears threatened to overwhelm you. “You will have me executed? Crucified?”

Geta tried to approach you again, only for a stylus to bounce off his forehead. “If you would let me—”

“Get out!” 

“You are the one who is a child!” Were the last words he managed to say through the barrage you sent flying at him. Even after he had slammed the door to your clinic, you continued to throw whatever you could get your hands on, you screams devolving into wailing sobs. 

Fuck Geta. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him—

“Fuck you!” Your howl was cut off by sobs, and you buried your hands into your hair, tugging the green strands with enough force to ground you. Still, your rage was unmitigating. “I— I never want to see your miserable face again!” 

Geta wasn’t around to hear it, though it felt nice to yell. Throwing yourself into your desk chair, you curled up around yourself and continued to cry. You wept until you couldn’t anymore, the truth of Geta’s feelings towards you threatened to drown you. He truly thought so little of you, it was enough to make you sick. It hurt more than you wanted it to. You wished you felt nothing, you wished you were relieved, finally able to free yourself of the weight of his expectations. All it did was hurt. 

God, you’d never be able to watch the sun set without crying again. 

By the time Caracalla found you, drunk after his meeting with Thraex, it was well into the night. You had stopped crying and took the opportunity of being alone to bury yourself into your research. Still, you looked like a mess. You hadn’t even taken the time to bandage the cut on your cheek. A scab was the body’s natural bandage, and, at the end of the day, it did the job well.

It hadn’t crossed your mind that Caracalla would be able to tell you were upset, he wasn’t the most observant man in the world, let alone in Rome. Truthfully, you didn’t want him to. As angry as you were, you didn’t want to cause a rift between the twins. Earlier, you might have, in your unending pettiness, but now, after you had some time to calm down, you decided against it. 

But he had noticed. Despite his selfishness, despite his drunkenness, Caracalla had noticed. 

“Melimelum, who hurt you?” His thumb traced the cut on your cheek, fingers outlining your tear tracks. “I will have them executed. Causing you despair will be the last thing they ever do.”

Miserable and desperate for comfort, you leaned into his touch, making his concern worsen. “They have been dealt with.” 

Caracalla softened and drew you against him, a hiccup bubbling from his throat. He reeked of wine, but you could smell lavender under it and it calmed you more than you wanted to admit. “Rejoice then, lover. Your enemies have been punished and you are in my arms. Safe and sound.” Quieter, he added, “I should not have left you”

“I wish it hadn’t happened,” You managed to say as your throat began to constrict once more.

He only pulled back enough for his nose to brush yours. With more tenderness than you thought him capable of, he pressed his lips to your cut and gave you a childish grin. “There. All better, dulcis. Now smile for your Caracalla.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to. “I am so tired”

Caracalla hummed. “Lay with me, then.”

On the floor of your clinic, he allowed you to nestle against him, his inebriation making him more docile than usual. Or, maybe, it was you who made him this way, you weren’t sure.

You wished your cheek hurt more than your heart.

A/N: Hi, I’m back sooner than I thought, but frisbees this chapter at you like a discus. I’ve had this chapter planned out since the very beginning, though the end scene with Caracalla was meant to be longer. I shortened it because I felt like the contents were repetitive and I can have Caracalla turned on and drinking your blood in chapter 14 anyway. So, there’s that to look forward to. God, he’s such a horny beast. It’s so funny, but he’s at the point of being in love where Alga could sneeze and he’d be hard as a rock. Everything they do is sooooo attractive to him. He got a half-chub because they told him ‘I love you.’ God!!!!!! He’s so sick in the head 😭

Alga’s kind of untouchable right now, at least in regards to Geta and Caracalla. They have a lot of power right now, basically having both emperors wrapped around their finger. However, that, of course, comes with the consequences of having enemies as well. It’s not hard to imagine what a drunk Caracalla talked about with Thraex (Spoiler: it was all Alga) who is definitely storing this information away for later. Sure hope the wrong person doesn’t learn about how exactly smitten Caracalla is. Like, most of the senate and Rome knows Caracalla has a new boytoy, and that Geta is also probably in the mix too, but no one knows its love. Honest to god love.

Funny story, I drafted out dialogue between Aelius and Caracalla, but I scrapped it. The scene just didn’t fit in well, and juggling Aelius, Alga, Marianus, AND Caracalla would have been a lot. Caracalla and Aelius WILL interact one day, though because I liked the dialogue a lot.

Anyway, enough about Caracalla, onto miserable yearner Geta. And, by jove, he’s sooooo fucking miserable right now. Self sabotager to the max. Fun fact: I dunno if anyone caught this, but when Alga says “tell me it’s not true” and Geta has a split second of terror, it’s because he thought they knew he’s in love with them for a split second. He’s sleep deprived and in his own head about his own jealousy. In his attempt to tell Alga how he feels, he further alienates them. Pay attention to his dialogue because he’s insane. I’m typing this up post 10 hour shift and I’m so tired, so I can’t articulate how insane he is. You read this chapter, you know.

Lastly, if you recognize the name Grumio from the Cambridge Latin course… hehe

That’s it!!!! Thank you so much for reading, it always means so much to me. I love this fic so much, and it’s become my longest one. Just… wow. Comments mean so much to me, but don’t feel pressured to!!! Still, though, I’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts because I do think there’s a lot of VERY funny lines this chapter. Hehe, stay tuned for Geta crashing out again next chapter, but less angry and more miserable. <33

tag list: @snazzynacho , @t6gse370 , @cherrysweets-world , @justlibra , @001mon

[bakedmandos]

PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER

2003 -> 2010 -> 2023 -> 2028

[bakedmandos]

PEDRO PASCAL as Joel Miller THE LAST OF US | The Price

[bakedmandos]

on my knees BEGGING for a flip flop with geta during the horse riding scene.. please....

You were pathetic. Everytime you climbed upon his horse, only to fall to the ground, Geta felt his stomach curl. Not because he was waiting for his horse to bring her hooves down upon your skull, or your leg to snap when you hit it wrong on your way down, but because your determination was sickening. He had never met anyone as stubborn as you.

When a soldier mounted the horse behind you, Geta felt his nails dig into the meat of his palm. That man was far too close to you, body pressed against yours, legs tangled together. He was sure to be able to smell you. Geta knew what the soldier was thinking. How perfect your body fit against his, how admirable your desire to learn was. Even if it was shameful that you were so bad at a task so simple, most wouldn’t have bothered half as hard as you did.

That man should not be so close to you. Simply looking at how he was entertwined with you filled Geta with fury. He was a far better rider than that soldier could ever hope to be. Lessons from an emperor would make you an expert by the day’s end, Geta thought to himself as he stormed towards you. He was ever so generous to offer you his expertise. Surely, you would look at him with awe afterwards.

As expected, the soldier removed himself from you, leaving his spot open for Geta to take. He didn’t think about how warm you were, your back pressed against his front, nor did he sniff your hair when he was certain you wouldn’t notice. Geta had been tangled up with many a whore, but here and now, with your nervousness choking your words, he had never felt so electric. He wanted to make you scream, to beg for mercy, to let him have complete control over you. That was why he sent the horse careening over the fence. If only to see what you would do.

His name left your lips, desperate and high pitched. So many thoughts ran through his mind at once, the most prominent one being that he wanted to hear you say his name again. Geta tightened his grip on the reins. He was in control. This was his horse, you were his medicus, and he could live without this heat boiling beneath his skin. You were to call him by his title: Imperator, the one who commands. You would obey him, you would fall to his every whim.

Gods, how he loved that ridiculous way you spoke. The accent must go eventually, especially if you were to stay in Rome with him and his brother, but he could enjoy it while it lasted. He could enjoy all of this while it lasted. Your fear, and your heat, and your begging, all for him to enjoy at his leisure. He had taken you around the long way, if only to stay pressed against you for longer.

Eventually, he felt the adrenaline in his veins calm. Without you squealing for mercy, Geta could think straight again. Strangely enough, he enjoyed speaking with you, which was not a luxury many people were afforded. You were articulate and well-mannered when you weren’t being a brat. An intelligent mind, one that could rival his own if he was being generous. He had recognized this before, Geta realized, deep, deep down in the recesses of his mind that he liked you. Caracalla didn’t bend to just anyone’s whims, there had to be something special about this foreign medicus.

Of course, you had to ruin it by speaking of topics that were not meant to be spoken about. Geta supposed he was the one who mentioned his father first, but you, as you always did, you took it too far. He was no victim. He was no survivor. There was no abuse, there was only punishment, and there was the endurance to outlive. Septimius Severus was dead, there was no use dwelling over such unpleasant matters. Caracalla had a weak mind, but Geta was strong. He was the elder, he could not falter, he had to remain upright.

You could never understand such a thing. That was why he disliked you. It was good to remember that again.

[bakedmandos]

FLIP FLOP FOR GETA DURNING THE RIDE HOME AFTER THE PARTY!!! Just imagining Geta being all angsty and loving at the same time… 💔

You were drunk, and he should be angry. Geta didn’t have to bring you along with him to Senator Dorso’s villa. Even if Caracalla demanded it so, it would only take a few hours of arguing to convince him otherwise. Yes, you would be safer by their side, where he could see your chest expand with every wonderful breath, but you didn’t have to join them. Keeping you to himself, away from all the liars and snakes of the senate was preferable.

Geta watched you. Always so busy, always studying, always working, more so than himself, a stringent and ever suffering emperor. A night of revelry was what you needed, Geta was certain of it.

He should be furious with you, he told himself as you leaned flush against his side. You had humiliated him in front of far too many patricians to be forgiven. Especially not so easily. He could smell that strange scent you liked so much wafting from you, far more pleasant than Caracalla’s lavender. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could convince you to wear the rose oil he favored. Surely, Cupid would see you anointed with Geta’s spoils, see your toga with green matching his own, and strike you thusly with an arrow.

When Geta tried to lift you onto the palanquin, his knees nearly gave out. You were far heavier than he expected. He was thankful you were too busy giggling at nothing to notice his struggle. Caracalla had gone ahead to sulk, leaving Geta alone with you. Finally, blessedly, alone.

You were drunk, and Geta should be disgusted by the lax way you carried yourself in his presence, curled against his thigh, but he was only relieved. Now, he could drink you in without fear. Watch the way your hair parted beneath his fingers, the way your shoulders sagged from his touch. You cared about his brother. The way you murmured about him, worried despite his outburst, made that obvious. Deep down, Geta was thankful for it, underneath the yawning pit of jealousy. It was a relief to no longer be his brother’s sole keeper. You cared for Caracalla even when there was nothing to be gained for such concern. Geta wished you would do the same for him.

Snuffing that flame before it could find kindling, he let himself be candid with you, just this once. You wouldn’t remember it, you told him so yourself. It was better this way, stealing moments with you, away from prying eyes. Of decorating you with his jewels and brooches, so oblivious to his affections.

For now, though, for one night only, Geta let himself believe you meant it. That you found him pretty as he found you, that his hair was the setting sun, and his eyes were gentle and new. He would forget that he was hated, that the senate and the people wanted to steal away his position that kept his brother safe, and he would forget how tired he was. All he needed now was to watch you drift off, the only person in Rome who felt safe enough to slumber so close to him.

Tomorrow, you wouldn’t remember any of this. Tomorrow, you would return to Caracalla’s side, leaving Geta alone to watch you from afar. Geta wished the idea didn’t make him feel so sick.

[bakedmandos]

[bakedmandos]

anything with domestic jackson!joel……. i miss him dearly

✶ ┄ END OF THE WORLD !

summary: you intervene when joel and ellie get into an argument, and try to find a way to tell him some shocking news of your own.

pairing: joel miller / f!reader

contents: s2ep6 spoilers, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention, loads of fluff + girl dad joel miller <3

“Your husband’s a lunatic,” an unfamiliar voice calls as you slide the rain-soaked jacket from your shoulders. 

You pause with it halfway down your arms, face twisted as you turn to the strange girl rushing down the stairs. One of Ellie’s friends, you presume, with auburn hair chopped to her chin and pale skin littered with tattoos. She tugs a flannel over her shoulders, concealing the faded locket on her forearm.

“Husband—?” you echo, voice laced with confusion. “—Who are you?”

The girl slides past you in the doorway without a word, ducking her head as she rushes down the porch and into the rain. You watch over your shoulder as she disappears into the downpour and wonder briefly what’s got her seeking refuge in a storm. 

Then you hear yelling, two muffled voices in a screaming match, coming from the bedroom the stranger had just left.

You realize, then, what she had meant by husband. 

And lunatic. 

“Joel?!” you shout with a nervous waver in your voice as you ascend the creaking staircase, skipping a step at a time and tucking the piece of paper in your hand into the back pocket of your jeans. The angry voices grow louder the closer you get to Ellie’s room. 

“—I guess this is what I get for tryin’ to surprise you, huh?”

“—I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”

“—That’s what a surprise is!”

You push the ajar door open with one hand, finding the two deadlocked in a glaring match in the center of the room. Joel holds the girl’s arm in a stern but gentle grip, while she keeps her free one balled into a trembling fist at her side. The arguing ceases when you appear in the doorway, but the angered looks twisting their features remain when their heads whip in your direction.

“What’s going on?” you pant, wide eyes darting between the two of them. “What happened?”

“This happened,” Joel spits and angles Ellie’s arm in your direction. The length of her forearm is adorned with fresh black ink — a long fern leading to a wide moth on the inside of her elbow — red around the edges and slightly swollen. 

Your face floods with a visible shock, though you fail to understand why it’s got Joel so angry. “It’s… It’s just a tattoo,” you say with an awkward laugh. “I don’t understand—”

“It’s not just a tattoo,” the man shouts, voice deep and gruff and accented. He drops Ellie’s arm to inch closer to you, gesticulating wildly with his weathered hands. “It’s all the teenage shit all at once. Drugs, sex, experimenting—”

“It wasn’t sex,” Ellie bites, dark eyes hardened. “And it wasn’t an experiment.”

“She’s seventeen,” you remind the man looming over you, as tall and angry as a black storm cloud. There’s a frown etched between his pinched, greying brows that you meet with a quiet smile. “We can’t expect her not toact like a teenager—”

“So, what?” Joel’s voice booms, much firmer than your soft one. “You’re— You’re takin’ her side, now? Is that it?”

“Obviously not!” you say, laughing. “We’re definitely gonna talk about smoking in the house, because it makes everything smell like shit—”

You look over Joel’s shoulder to flash the girl behind him a pointed look. Ellie cowers under your gaze, “Sorry…” she mumbles.

“And we need to set some ground rules about having people over, but—”

“But what?” Joel interjects, hands on his hips, already angry at you for something you haven’t yet said.

“But it’s just a tattoo. And it’s just some girl.” You wave your hand vaguely to the open door behind you, where the stranger had just scurried from. “It’s not the end of the world you’re making it out to be.”

The anger in Joel’s tired eyes flickers suddenly, like a snuffed flame. “I thought we were supposed to be a team?” he murmurs, low and slightly strained. You see the stress of the situation hit him then, a visible fatigue on his greying face. 

“We are.” 

Joel exhales sharply through his nose in place of a laugh. The corner of his mouth quirks in an emotionless half-smile. “Well, then, it’d be real nice if you took my side every now and then.”

His broad shoulder brushes yours as he walks past you out the door. “Joel!” you call to him, though his only response is the slam of Ellie’s bedroom door. The framed photos and paintings on the wall jolt softly in protest.

Ellie huffs a breath of relief when he’s gone. “Thanks…” she murmurs, shifting shyly on her feet.

“Don’t thank me,” you sigh and lean your weight against her desk. 

To your left is a birthday cake — chocolate icing, rainbow sprinkles, and her name written in cursive. You think it must be the surprise Joel mentioned earlier, since he’s done this every year right before her birthday. He always says that there’s no real time to worry about cake on the day, ‘cause he’s always got something elaborate planned for her outside of Jackson.

He was gonna take her on her first patrol at first light tomorrow, like she’s been begging for since she was fifteen. You hope he’ll still take her. You hope she’ll let him.

You feel the exhaustion of the long day in your tired bones, then. All the sleep you didn’t get and the early hours you spent feeling sickly hit you all at once. You feel more infected than human most days. It’s a palpable weariness Ellie can feel across the room.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize either,” you tell her. “I mean, I was serious about you smoking in the house— and about you having people I don’t know over, but… You’re not doing anything wrong, okay?”

Ellie’s brows pinch. She eyes you from beneath her lashes like she’s half suspicious, too used to Joel and his never-ending lectures. “I’m not?” she wonders aloud.

“No. Not as long as you’re being safe, you know, with the weed and the… whoever that was.”

“Kat,” she finishes for you.

“Sure. I just— I think it’d be easier for Joel if you’d, you know, talk to him— to us. I know you don’t care about his permission or whatever, but I think it’d help if he felt… included.” You shrug like you’re offering her something, but it’s more of a plea than anything. “At least then he wouldn’t have to find you smoking weed and sneaking girls over all at once. He’s old, Els, there’s only so much his heart can take.”

Ellie fights back a smile and plops down on the foot of her bed. The old thing creaks softly under her weight. “I don’t know how,” she murmurs, running her finger over the fresh ink in her arm. “To talk to him, I mean.”

“I don’t either, sometimes,” you confess with a sigh and rise from your slouched position. “But I guess I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck,” Ellie lilts as you wrench open the door.

“Thanks,” you deadpan back. “I think I’m gonna need it.”

You take your time making your way to the garage, which is where Joel usually goes to let off steam. He holds all his love in his hands, but he keeps his anger there, too — which is why you find him working on Ellie’s handmade guitar in the quiet yellow lamplight. ‘Cause even though no one pisses him off quite like than soon to be seventeen-year-old, Joel Miller can’t love her anymore than he already does.

You knock softly on the already open door to announce your arrival.

Joel, with his back turned towards you, blows dust from the waist of the guitar as he sands down its edges. “I don’t wanna talk right now,” he murmurs gruffly, running his calloused palm over the smooth wood.

You exhale a breathy laugh before you mean to. Joel glares at you over his shoulder. You clear your throat and try hard to be serious. “Sorry. You just— You talk a lot about Ellie’s mood swings, but some days you’re just as bad,” you confess, inching closer with hesitant steps. “Like father, like daughter, I suppose…”

The corner of Joel’s lip quirks in a quiet smile that he rubs away with his hand, fingers brushing over his greying beard. You walk closer and smooth your palms over his tense shoulders. Joel tries to deny himself the intimacy, “I’m serious, I really don’t—”

You bend at the waist to press your mouth to his ear. “Shh…” you whisper there, right before pressing a kiss to his scruffy cheek. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you sprinkle chaste kisses everywhere you can reach. His cheek, his temple, his jaw, his neck. You bathe him in softness until it washes the learned hardness from his body — until he exhales a much-needed breath and relaxes in your hold.

“There you go…” you coo, embracing him with one hand while your other smooths over his silver curls. Joel’s head tilts instinctively into your touch. His heavy eyes flutter slowly shut. 

“I just don’t understand her sometimes,” he murmurs.

“I know. I’m sure she feels the same way.”

His brows pinch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think you confuse her the same way she confuses you? When you go from… barely talking to exploding out of nowhere?”

“I don’t explode,” he scoffs, face twisted with offense as he turns his head to look at you. You flash him a knowing look in response, which only offends him more. “I don’t!”

“You don’t ask her to open up, and then take it out on her when she keeps things from you.”

Joel glares when you straddle the bench to sit beside him. “You’re doing it again,” he deadpans and turns away, anxious hands messing with the half-done guitar in his lap.

“What?” you laugh. “Knocking some sense into you?”

Joel rolls his eyes in response. You reach for him, grabbing his scruffy chin with your thumb and forefinger to pull him closer and press a smacking kiss to his cheek. “I’m just kidding…” you lilt within a sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel, Joel.”

You feel him shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do. I know every little thought that goes on in that head of yours, Joel Miller,” you insist gently, smoothing your cheek over his shoulder like a cat. “I know you love Ellie like a daughter. Like Sarah—”

The mention of her name makes him tense beneath you.

“—And I know that sometimes you miss Ellie like you miss Sarah. And I know that that confuses you, ‘cause Ellie’s still here, and that you just don’t want her to grow up… I get it.”

Joel flinches softly at your words, at the weight of them. His weathered features screw together, as though physically pained by the thought. He swallows hard and admits the hard truth out loud, “I just wanna protect her,” he mumbles, slightly strangled with emotion.

“I know you do. ‘Cause that’s what you always do,” you hum, resting your chin on his shoulder to gaze softly upon his profile. His features are strong and chiseled, like that of an ancient sculpture slightly worn with time. You smooth a rogue grey curl from his temple, chin bobbing as you speak, “But I think tattoos and weed are the least of our problems right now, all things considered.”

Joel huffs, broad shoulders deflating. 

Thinking about it now, he can’t remember why he got so worked up in the first place — why he resorted to the yelling place, as you called it, instead of just talking like a normal human being. But, in truth, nothing about him and Ellie has ever been normal. She was cargo to him one minute, and then he blinked and realized he’d set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe. It’s a guttural, primal feeling he doesn’t think many people understand — least of all Ellie herself.

“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs, southern drawl like honey, as he props the handmade guitar on the floor beside him. He rises from the workbench and guides you with him with a gentle hand on the outside of your elbow. “You always are,” he follows with a quiet, crooked smile.

“Thanks for admitting it, Miller,” you grin, and migrate instinctively into his arms when he opens them for you. 

You press yourself against him with every intention of melting in his warmth, inhaling his sea-salt scented shampoo when you nose into his curls. Joel buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a heavy sigh of contentment there. You try not to shiver when his beard scrapes the delicate skin of your neck.

“Ellie said she wants to move in here,” Joel mumbles against you.

“The garage?” you ask. 

He nods against you. 

“And what did you say?”

“Hell no,” he deadpans in response, then smiles to himself when he feels your body shaking with subsequent laughter.

“I’m not trying to take Ellie’s side, or anything, but… I don’t think it’s the worst idea ever,” you start slowly, awaiting his response. Joel stays silent to egg you on, and your eyes flit to the wooden panels on the ceiling, trying to find the words to say. They all just seem to strangle you instead. “I think that, you know, maybe we could use the extra room.” 

Joel parts from you, but only slightly. Just enough to peer down at you with a bearded face twisted in a gentle sort of confusion. “For what?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug, even though you do know and you’re just trying to find the courage. “Maybe a nursery?”

It comes out like a question, like you’re just testing the waters — gauging his reaction. You don’t tell him, yet, that a nursery will become unequivocally necessary in the coming months, much sooner than either of you realize. 

The realization of such comes slowly. You watch his confusion deepen, then ebb slightly, before his face floods with a gaping look of shock.

“Are you…” Joel stammers. “You’re…”

“Pregnant? Yeah, apparently,” you answer casually, ‘cause you’ve had an hour or so now to get over the initial stupor. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans for the sonogram you tucked there for safekeeping. “I was coming back from Dr. Quinn’s when I found you and Ellie in a screaming match—”

Joel takes the ultrasound you offer him with shaking hands.

“Turns out, it wasn’t actually food poisoning,” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest to tuck your own trembling fingers under your armpits. “Even though I’m still almost certain that chicken alfredo Tommy made last week was, like, totally raw, but—”

Joel’s wide eyes flit between your face and the black-and-white photo in his hands. At the center is an indistinct blob, no bigger than a raspberry, and it sends his racing heart to the pit of his stomach. “You’re pregnant?” he wonders aloud, more firmly this time, though the words still sound a bit foreign on his tongue.

“Yep,” you answer, brows raised and smile wavering. “Surprise…” you lilt shakily.

Joel shifts on his feet before you, maneuvering the sonogram between his sweaty hands so he can wipe each one on his jeans. His mouth opens and closes for a few long moments as he tries to find the right words to say. It’s hard to, though, when his head’s racing a million miles a minute.

“Is… Is it…?” he trails off.

You don’t let him finish. “I swear to god, Joel Miller, if you ask me if it’s yours, I’m gonna be the one moving into the garage.”

Despite being half-breathless, Joel manages a quiet laugh. “No, I mean, is it… Is it a girl, or…?”

“Oh. Uh… It’s too early to tell, I think?”

“Right,” Joel nods. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Despite his obvious gracelessness, he’s been through this once before. He remembers every inch of his time with Sarah, who’d changed his life before she was even born. That all feels like lifetimes ago now, though — and, in some ways, it has been. 

The world went to shit, but it didn’t truly end until his babygirl died. And then decades flew by like minutes, and he found Ellie, and realized too late that she was his second shot at a life he thought was long gone. And when he got to Jackson, and when Jackson gave him you, he realized he could start living again — and that Sarah wouldn’t punish him for moving on. (Though she was always too kind for that, anyway.)

“I hope it’s a girl, though,” you say when Joel gets lost in his head, smoothing your hands over his chest. You think you can feel his heart racing beneath your palm. “I wanna keep you outnumbered, Miller.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he mumbles, lips quirking in a quiet smile. 

Your grin comes more absentmindedly, relieved by his reaction. “So… You’re happy?”

Joel falters for a moment, ‘cause he can’t imagine being anything else — not when he’s got Ellie, and you, and this baby who’s not here yet. “Yeah,” he nods, slightly strangled when his eyes burn with unshed tears. “‘Course I am.”

He hugs you again, this time like he’s trying to press all the love in his heart directly into yours. His strong arms wrap tightly around you, like they have every day for years now, until he remembers his strength and jerks back like he’s burned you. 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” he curses under his breath, holding you gently by the waist with careful hands. His dark eyes dart wildly from your smiling face to the barely-there bump beneath your sweater, scared that he’s hurt you somehow.

“It’s okay,” you laugh. “Keep holding me. I liked it.”

He abides you, ‘cause it’s in his blood to, though he’s clearly more gentle this time. He keeps one warm hand on your lower back and his other cradling the back of your hair. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and mumbles there, “‘M sorry for stressin’ you out today. Wouldn’t have made a fuss about it if I knew… Shouldn’t have made a fuss about it anyway…”

“Don’t worry about that,” you murmur sincerely into his chest, then joke quietly, “I want you to stress me out for a lifetime, Miller.”

You feel his soft laughter rumbling against your cheek. “I guess I can do that.”

[bakedmandos]

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter 11

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla intends to woo you on the date he has planned for tonight, but first, you need to tend to your hangover. Once the sun sets, you are his. All you have to do is find him first.

Tags: MDNI, period typical mentions of slavery, handjob, hangover, sliiiiight feederism and tickle kink stuff if you squint but it’s more just Caracalla being horny over everything, jealous Geta, Aelius being the worlds best friend, cum eating but it’s not sexy and more casual, love confessions, making out,

Word Count: 8k words

Read on AO3

Masterlist.

The first thing you noticed when you pried your eyes open was the sour taste of vomit in the back of your throat. Smacking your lips, you stretched out your stiff body with a powerful groan. You had fallen asleep with one of your arms trapped under yourself. Pins and needles lanced up the limb as you tried to untangle from your sheets. When you opened your eyes, you winced, curling into a ball to block the light streaming through the windows. Your head was pounding to the beat of your heart. So, this was what a hangover was like. You understood why people complained about them as much as they did. 

“Wake up, melimelum,” A familiar voice whined from the edge of your bed. Caracalla’s high-pitched rasp did little to soothe your headache, and you covered your ears with your palms to block him out. A beat passed in blessed silence before a single exploratory digit pressed into the flesh of your hip. When you didn’t swat him away, Caracalla began to grope you with a laugh. “I have been waiting for you all morning. It seems that you needed your rest. You slept until the middle of the afternoon, and how sweet you looked while you dreamed, dulcissimus. Was it of me?”

Furiously, you scrubbed at your face and tried to piece together a response. There was so much to parse through. First of all, how did you get to your bed? If you could remember anything aside from the sinking feeling that you humiliated yourself thoroughly, it would be easier to figure out. Secondly, you had to grapple with the fact that Caracalla likely spent the past several hours watching you sleep. That was creepy to think about, even if it was a little sweet that in all his impatience, watching you was entertaining enough to keep him occupied for as long as it did. At the end of it all, though, there was only one aspect of what Caracalla said that you latched onto.

“I did not look sweet,” You grumbled as Caracalla gently pinched your flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “My mouth tastes like vomit.”

A small hum of protest rumbled in the back of your throat when he pulled away his hand. As much as you ached, his touch was a comfort you craved. Metal tapped against the back of your head and you unfurled yourself to see Caracalla holding a cup out to you. Grateful, you took it from him, taking a sip before you could think better of it.

Once the wine he gave you hit your tongue, you retched. You shoved the cup back into his hands and glared. “Water, Caracalla. I need water.”

“Water is mixed in with the wine.” Despite his argument, he handed the cup to a nearby slave who poured it out and filled it with the liquid you wanted. Your mouth felt impossibly dry simply from looking at it. When he handed the cup to you, he purposefully made sure your hands touched, his lips twitching upwards at the contact. “There is no better cure for what ails you than more wine, melimelum.” 

“Where did you receive your medical certification, Caesar,” You asked blandly after you guzzled half the glass. 

He rolled his eyes and took the cup from you. Without looking, he held it for the slave to take before he shooed him away, leaving the two of you alone. Sitting on the edge of your bed, he swung his legs onto the mattress and slotted his body against yours. Instinctively, you wrapped yourself around him, holding him close.

“Caracalla, Alga. We are alone now. I expect to hear my name on your tongue.” His face was inches from yours, forehead pressed against your own so he could gaze into the depths of your eyes. You watched his pupils flicker to your lips, his own parting slightly for his tongue to dart out. With a small laugh, you leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek, earning a frustrated huff. “Dulcissimus, you are a terrible tease.” 

“As are you,” You said with a smile. Being like this with another person made you feel a bit better, though your head still thundered. Even contact as simple as this, limbs tangled together like vines, it made your heart flutter.

Eyebrows knitting, he gave you an unamused look. “How am I teasing when you are the minx?”

Jokingly, you narrowed your eyes at him to feign annoyance. “I believed you to be courting me, but I have yet to be wooed. Why would I give in easily if you have yet to make good on your promise?” 

At your words, Caracalla grinned at you, his eyes glinting mischievously. He swiped his thumb along your cheekbone and drew you even closer. “I have great plans for tonight. It was why I was waiting for you to wake up, I have something to give you.” 

As quick as it happened, and more efficient than you had ever seen him, he pulled himself away from you to retrieve a piece of paper at your bedside. You sat up, massaging your temples to quell some of the ache. He handed it to you, his face alight with barely contained pride. On the front of the papyrus, written in a hasty scrawl was ‘Dilecto, Alga.’ 

“Open it,” Caracalla encouraged with a nod. He shifted from foot to foot, his antsiness less from nerves and more from impatience. You stifled a laugh.

Slowly, you pulled open the paper to reveal what you could only assume was a map. It was a rough sketch of the palace starting from your bedroom and ending somewhere in the fields beyond the grounds. From the quick lines, you could tell that Caracalla had trouble staying focused. Still, it was more effort than he put into his imperial duties, and it was made solely for you. 

“It is a map.” 

Caracalla stepped forward to point out that, at the bottom of the paper, was a note. He didn’t seem nervous for your reaction, likely confident in his ability to make you swoon. The restlessness he exuded was barely contained excitement and affection, swelling from within him to pour around you like a blanket. “Read it aloud, melimelum. I want to hear your voice tremble.”

A few moments passed as you tried to translate the Latin in your head. To his credit, Caracalla didn’t rip the map from your hands to read it himself, though it looked like he was about to. You felt your face flush once you realized what it said, and his chest puffed out in barely contained triumph.

“‘My sweet, meet me here tonight, and I will teach you the depth of my affection,’” You read. To his growing delight, your voice shook ever so slightly. With hot cheeks, you glanced up at Caracalla, holding the map close to your chest. “You made this for me?” 

“Yes. There is much I must tell you and I cannot wait a day more. Will you meet me?” Both of you already knew the answer, though it seemed Caracalla wanted to hear you say it. 

“The gods themselves could not stop me.” 

A ring clad had reached out to give you a pleased pat on the cheek. The contact made your head spin, but the affection more than made up for it. “I knew you would agree. You are mine after all.” The possessive prospect seemed to remind him of something. His face split into jealousy as his fingers began playing with strands of your hair with gentle ministrations despite his fraught emotions. Serious now, Caracalla leaned down, his gaze steady and testing. “Did you bed my brother last night, my medicus?” 

While you barely remembered the previous night, there was no pain between your legs or ache to your body that you suspected would come from a night of passion. “No. I did not sleep with your brother.”

Caracalla’s eyes searched your face for any form of a lie before he softened, fondness leaking from his very pores. “I should not have doubted you. You are my honey, sweet only for me.” 

“Why did you think I did?” You managed to ask as Caracalla nuzzled his cheek against yours, far too reminiscent of a cat for you to keep from smiling. His red hair tickled your face, and distantly, you remembered calling him a carrot. Pursing your lips, you made an effort to store that away for later.

“My brother stole your attention from me last night, melimelum,” Caracalla whined. “You were so affectionate and cute, I barely got to bask in your presence before he tried to take you away from me.” His arms wrapped around you, squeezing you tight enough for you to wheeze. Delicate fingers buried into the fabric of your tunic — not your sleep shirt, you realized with relief. “Geta always takes away what is mine.”

There was a petulant note to his voice, though hidden under it all, was a jealous pain. This had been bothering him for a while now. In an effort to soothe him, you began to play with his hair, causing him to inhale a shuddering breath. “Geta will not take me away from you, Caracalla. Not forever, and not always. There will always be a special place in my heart that belongs only to you, no matter what happens.” 

While he didn’t relax, still tense and unconvinced, he allowed you to rock him. Caracalla leaned back to look at you, and you realized that his cheeks were wet. When you reached to wipe them dry, he grabbed your wrists and pulled your hands down to rest on his hips. His lips parted, moving in tune with quietly spoken words you couldn’t make out. 

“Not yet,” He finally said. Forcefully, he pressed his palm against your cheek and pulled back the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “Remember my patience, melimelum. Remember what I give to you alone, and no one else.” Again, his eyes flickered to your lips. With great effort, he managed to unclasp himself from you to stand. “Meet me tonight. If I am here any longer, I will ruin it all.”

“You couldn’t ruin this, Caracalla,” You tried to assure him with a small smile.

He let out a frustrated groan, running his hand down his face. “You still don’t understand what you do to me. Begone from me, medicus. I only want to see you once the sun has set.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door hard enough for your headache to return with a vengeance. Groaning, you massaged your temples in an effort to get the pain to lessen. Now that Caracalla was gone, you were alone with only your thoughts and your exhaustion. Despite allegedly sleeping for half the day, you could manage a few more hours if you really put your mind to it. You would rather not, though, so you heaved yourself out of bed and guzzled some more water straight from the pitcher. No one was around to judge you, anyway. 

The water sort of tasted like mud. If you didn’t know it was boiled, you would be nervous drinking it. One of, if not the, last thing you wanted was to ingest any intestinal worms. Speaking of which, you should probably check Caracalla’s and Geta’s stool for any sign of parasites. Not that it was a particularly high task on your docket, it needed to be done sooner or later. Digging through your… boyfriend’s date’s fecal matter was certainly a way to spend the afternoon. Before that, though, you needed to take care of your headache.

Somehow, you had managed quite well with herbal remedies. As much as you doubted their strength, they had their uses. Thank the gods for that, at least. You only had so much modern medicine left at your disposal, a single bottle of two hundred milligram ibuprofen that the praetorian guard confiscated when you first arrived. Perhaps, now, with your horrid headache, would be a good time to fetch it. As guilty as you felt using such a precious material on your hangover, you felt more comfortable than you did before. You could survive without it, and while you liked to have a deus ex machina in case events went awry, it wasn’t as much of a crutch as it was before. Sparing a single pill for your headache didn’t make you a bad person. 

Your nice toga was disheveled from sleeping through the night in it. While you would not be wearing it frequently, it would be nice to have in case you were invited to any more upscale events. Though, you doubted you would be. The last thing you remembered with clarity was talking to Senator Thraex. After that, it was all a series of flashes and feelings that you couldn’t bring yourself to parse through. You remembered speaking to a beautiful blonde woman whose name you couldn’t remember and a staggering amount of affection that threatened to overwhelm you. Distantly, you were rather sure you had broken something expensive. Worst of all, however, was the fact that, at some point, you remembered doing the macarena. A full body cringe made your face crumple. Better to not think about it.

Once you were in a plain tunic, a simple belt around your waist, you smoothed out the wrinkles down your front, ready to go. If you went back in time and told yourself you’d be comfortable wearing what was essentially a dress without feeling emasculated, you’d have laughed in your face. Then again, if you went back — or was it forward now? — in time and told yourself you were living in Ancient Rome, you would have become a modern sleeping beauty. Gone to sleep, never to wake up again. That way, you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. 

The longer you spent in Rome, the better you felt. Every so often, you would be plagued by homesickness, but ultimately, the life you lived now was far better than the one you had before. So long as you focused on the bright sides, the horrifying reality that some supernatural entity plucked you from one point and dropped you at the next wouldn’t creep up on you. Into the vault it went, along with everything else you’d rather not think about right now. 

It didn’t take long for you to get to the barracks. Due to the time of day, it was practically empty, save for some napping soldiers. Everyone had gotten their assignments, seemingly eager to complete them. The only ones who would be awake at this hour was the person you were looking for now that Caracalla was off your tail. Aelius, your beacon of normalcy in the tempest that was the emperors. You wished that he had been at the party last night. At least then you would be able to have an impartial bystander who could relay what happened without humiliating you further. Sighing, you trudged deeper into the barracks to find their bunks.

Aelius found you first, more worried than excited by your presence. “My friend, you shouldn’t be here. What if the emperor catches you?” 

“I know, I know, but Caracalla said he didn’t want to see me until tonight. I believe we are safe.” You massaged at your cheeks with the pads of your fingers, somewhat anxious in the face of Aelius’ own wariness. 

With pursed lips, he raised an eyebrow. “I see. You are on a first name basis with our Caesar.” 

That caught you off guard. Unable to stop it, a rosy flush bloomed across your cheeks as you stammered a response, “I, uh— Yes, I am. Does this surprise you?”

“Eheu, not in the slightest, my friend. I would tell you to be cautious, though it seems as though you would throw that to the wind.” Before Aelius wrapped an arm around your shoulder to bring you into a side-hug, he cast a furtive glance around the barracks. 

You laughed and gave him a few fond pats between his shoulder blades. “Perhaps I have. Can you keep a secret? From even Marianus?”

Aelius visibly deflated, his features taking on a look of tired exasperation before you could speak. “I suppose I could, medicus. Now what grim happenings are you about to tell me.”

“Emperor Caracalla is—” Leaning closer, you stood on your tiptoes to reach Aelius’ ear. “— courting me tonight.”

He blinked, surprised for only a moment before his entire expression twisted into a grimace. “I am… So happy for you, my friend.” 

“You do not have to lie.” You frowned at him. 

“What am I to say? You are inviting danger to your doorstep, my friend. Courting a wild beast would be safer than Emperor Caracalla.” 

Stubbornness welled in the pit of your gut, even if you knew he was right. Your hands balled up into fists and you clenched your jaw, the desire to defend Caracalla bubbling up inside you with more force than you thought possible. “He would not hurt me.”

“I…” Aelius began, shifting from foot to foot in the face of your anger. “I did not mean to upset you. I have seen how he looks at you, and I do not know him as you do, but it is not the emperor’s wrath I am trying to warn you about.”

“Elaborate.”

“The praetorians who accompanied the emperors to the party, a handful approached me after in regards to you.”

“Do not leave me in suspense.”

“The senators and the patricians, those who are… not fond of the emperors have seen their… preference for you. That puts you in a dangerous position.” In an effort to soothe you, he placed his palm flat between your shoulder blades. You felt yourself slump.

“I— I can handle it, Aelius. I will not betray them, nor will I betray you.”

A small, concerned furrow of his brows was what you received next. His voice was soft as he spoke, “That is easier said than done, I’m afraid. There may come a time when a choice is to be made.”

“Then I will do nothing,” You stubbornly insisted.

Aelius simply shook his head. “That is a choice, my friend.”

He was right, you knew that. Still, you didn’t know what else to say. When the time came, all you could hope was that you would make the right decision and that no one would get hurt. Wishful thinking at its finest.

“Marianus will not be pleased to find out about this, will he?”

There was a sigh, then, with an arm around your shoulders, Aelius gave you a squeeze. “No, I cannot say that he will be particularly pleased to find that you are being courted by the most unstable man in the empire.”

“I shouldn’t like him as much as I do,” You murmured as you began forward, your gaze searching for a high ranking praetorian. Guilt only worsened your pounding headache. “Caracalla is not kind to you or Marianus, I should hate him. Geta too.”

Aelius turned to you, a small, playful smile curling his lips. “You are lucky I am the forgiving type, my friend.” 

A frustrated groan rumbled in the back of your throat, your footsteps slow and meandering in time with Aelius. “I don’t know why I like him so much.”

“Money? Power?” Your friend offered.

You shook your head, a tad offended. “No, it’s… He’s so earnest. I like the way he feels next to me, I like the way his teeth stick out when he smiles, I like that I’m the cause of it. He can be so sweet.” 

The more you gushed, the softer your features became. Aelius watched the change with a mix of fondness and trepidation. “Oh dear gods, medicus, you love him.”

Throwing your hands up, you felt your face burn. “I am aware! It’s so awful, Aelius. I fear my heart will make a fool of me.”

“Fool or not, you will always be my friend,” Aelius assured you with another squeeze. “Awful taste in men aside.”

A snort pulled from your throat as you knocked your shoulder against his. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

“Remember my sacrifice when your jealous emperor lover puts me on the cross.” 

“The next Jesus!” You giggled.

Instead of laughing, Aelius simply looked at you with a perplexed raise of his brow. “I am no leader of the Christian cult, but I suppose you are as strange as you are foolish. I only pray you meant that as a compliment.”

The two of you chattered mindlessly for a bit as you strolled through the barracks. Some disgruntled men glared at you from their bunks, receiving an apologetic grimace from the both of you and an effort to lower your voices in return. Admittedly, though, you weren’t looking all that hard, good company was helping to soothe your aches more than you thought. Eventually, you found who you were looking for. Awake in his bunk, sorting through wax tablets, was Atticus Gaius, a high ranking praetorian who usually worked nights. You preferred him over anyone else. He was good natured, as evidenced by his apparent friendship with Aelius, if not a little rude in his brashness. A trait that became obvious when he laid eyes on you.

“Ah, if it isn’t the emperor’s puer! He must have fucked you good last night for you to be up and about so late in the day.” Gaius stood, about halfway between the height difference of Aelius and Marianus. Not tall, but not short either. He was paler than the average Roman, with sparkling green eyes and a smile that showed off his canines. Grinning, he punched you playfully in the shoulder. “Which of our Caesarēs was it? If I liked my head, I’d ask who was the best in bed. I have my theories.” 

The only problem that came with interacting with Gaius was his crude sense of humor and the fact that, while he hardly knew you, he had a tendency to be overly friendly. You were awkward enough for it to be mildly uncomfortable, even if you didn’t dislike him. 

“Uh, neither,” You answered with a smile that was more of a grimace. “I’m not Emperor Caracalla’s boy.”

“Right,” Gaius intoned with a disbelieving smirk. “Keep your secrets, medicus. Here I was, hoping for some good gossip. Unfortunately, you are here for business rather than pleasure.” He paused for dramatic effect before barking out a laugh. “For once!”

Aelius leaned down to whisper, “I warned you, my friend. You are the talk of the empire.” 

All you could do was deflate. “Gaius, could I have that bottle of medicine that was confiscated when I first arrived?” 

Placing his hands on his hips, he regarded you intensely. For all his energy, Gaius did take his job seriously. “For what purpose?” 

“I have a headache.”

Almost instantly, he relaxed, his smile returning. “Who am I to deny you, loose man? I’d rather not have Emperor Caracalla demanding my execution because I insulted his beloved cinaedus’ soft heart.”

“I can never tell if you’re trying to insult me on purpose,” You muttered, narrowing your eyes. 

Gaius laughed and gestured for you and Aelius to follow him. “Well, without you boys, medicus, us men wouldn’t have holes to fuck. You are filled to the brim with importance!” 

He punctuated his crude joke with a laugh. You decided to ignore him from here on out. 

It wasn’t a far trek to get to where your confiscated items were being held. Now that your taser was broken, there weren’t many objects of yours to look out for anymore. After unlocking a small cabinet, Gaius tried to open the bottle by pulling off the cap. He grunted as he struggled, the child’s safety mechanism making it impossible for him to open that way. To get his attention, you tapped his shoulder and took the bottle from his hands. Gaius and Aelius watched as you pushed down and twisted, opening the bottle with ease. 

“Ha! Sorcery!” Gaius exclaimed. 

You shook your head, your smile becoming a little more genuine. “It is like this so that children cannot open it believing the contents to be sweets. Safety first!”

Aelius snorted and elbowed Gaius in the side. “It seems I was right, you are no better than a child.”

Ever the good sport, Gaius easily agreed, “I suppose you have your proof now.”

Paying neither man any mind, you dry swallowed two pills and closed the top. Gaius watched you for several seconds, appraising your condition. At first, you didn’t know what he was looking for, but when his posture loosened, you realized what it was.

“Did you think I was poisoning myself?” You asked.

Gaius shrugged. “No, but there was always the possibility. Thank you for not dying, medicus, I quite like my organs on the inside.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Anytime, soldier.”

Now, all you had to do was wait for your headache to abate and the sun to set. 

You spent the better part of the afternoon quietly watching Aelius lose at dice to Gaius before you said your goodbyes. Gaius was more Aelius’ friend than yours, and you were rather happy that he had someone other than yourself to spend his time with. With a yawn, you stretched your arms behind your head and stared out of the window. A bit of excitement welled in your chest when you saw that the sun was beginning to set. 

It was time for your date. 

First off, you had to retrieve the map Caracalla gifted you from your bedroom. To your surprise, there was the lingering scent of lavender on your pillows. You sat on the edge of your bed, your nose pressed into the plush fabric and inhaled. Caracalla had been in here, long enough for his perfume to have infected your sheets. The thought that he missed you made your head spin. You knew he was impulsive, a man ruled by his emotions. If he managed to hold himself back from seeking you out, what he had planned must be important. You would be cruel to keep him waiting any longer. 

A part of you wondered if you should doll yourself up. This was a date after all, you should look your best. Staring into the mirror, you realized you didn’t have the foggiest idea of where to begin. Five minutes passed of you frantically fixing your hair and rooting through your collection of tunics for one that could be considered classier than the one you were wearing. No dice. You hadn’t considered dressing up before now and you regretted it immensely. There was no time to bother. After running your fingers through your hair, you dabbed a bit of lavender oil onto your wrists and neck. Caracalla seemed to like when you smelled like him, so that felt like a safe bet.

It would be a stretch for you to say that you were happy with how you looked, especially in the context of a date, but you were as good as you were going to get. Map in hand, you trotted out of your bedroom and began your search for the spot Caracalla deigned to meet you.

When you had first looked at the map, you were too taken by the romanticism of the gesture to really focus on the fact that it looked like a toddler had drawn it. You recognized your bedroom, if only because it was labelled, and you were able to see that the place you were supposed to go was outside of the palace, but that was it. Which side of the grounds it was on was nearly impossible for you to decipher.

You held the piece of paper outside of a nearby window so that the setting sun could illuminate its scrawl. All it did was confuse you further. Was that an arrow or a tree? There also seemed to be roses crudely drawn in the margins, though a majority of them bled through onto the main subject, making it hard to figure out where one ended and the other began. You narrowed your eyes, trying to think like Caracalla. Surely, he would add arrows. Maybe he left roses behind to help guide you.

No, no, that would require too much foresight. The map was all you were going to get, unfortunately, and the longer you stared at it, the more you realized you may not manage to make it to the date. Caracalla would be hysterical if you stood him up. That was not something you wanted to have to deal with, not only because the guilt would drown you, but because an angry Caracalla was rather draining. You felt anxiety well in your chest. Someway, somehow, you had to get to him. Another week in the doghouse was not high on your bucket list.

“Ugh,” You muttered.

This was his fault for having the cartography skills of a five year old. Pursing your lips, you turned on your heel to head outside. Might as well circle the grounds of Palatine Hill until you found him. This was going to take forever, and you knew he had the patience of a badly trained dog. Hopefully, though, you’d get lucky and find him before he decided that you weren’t coming. 

You got maybe five steps when you ran into someone. Two thin hands steadied you by grasping your shoulders. When you looked up, there was Geta looking particularly disgruntled, his gaze distant as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Though, for some reason, they softened when he finally took you in. His cheek twitched as he fought a smirk.

“Where are you off to, Algacula?” His eyes flickered to the map in your hands and his expression hardened. That was more like the Geta you knew. “Ah, that is Caracalla’s work. Hand it here.”

“Caesar, I—” You weren’t even going to argue, but he snatched the papyrus from your hands as if you would all the same. Geta studied the back. When he saw the words ‘Dilecto, Alga,’ his grip tightened enough for the map to crinkle in his hands, though he said nothing. Once he flipped it over to look over the map, you found your voice, “Would you be willing to help me figure out where to go? Caracalla is trying to lead me somewhere and—” 

“I’m well aware what this is,” He sneered. “My brother is stargazing with you tonight.” 

A flush heated your cheeks. So that was what he had planned. You couldn’t help but feel incredibly wooed that he was able to recall how much you loved the stars. A flustered smile caused your lips to flutter. “Oh. I was unaware that was the plan. How sweet that he remembered.”

Geta’s grip tightened. “Yes, he remembered well.”

“Please be careful with that, Caesar.” Without thinking, your fingers danced over his wrist. The contact, though minute, sent a spark through your veins. For a moment, you prepared for a biting remark, only to feel your brows furrow when Geta softened. 

He looked out to the sunset as one of his fingers twisted a lock of his hair around it. “Do you remember what you said to me last night?”

A wince made your face scrunch. “I apologize, Caesar, I remember very little of the party. I hope that I did not insult you.”

A flurry of emotions passed over Geta’s features. The only one you recognized was disappointment, though it was quickly gone, replaced with the sternness you were used to. “You always insult me, Alga.” He looked at the map, then back to you, his features pinched, before he finally sighed. “Head east and crest the hill. You will find Caracalla there. It is the best place in the city to see the stars.”

“Thank you.” Not wanting to waste anymore time — each second that passed was another second that you were trusting Caracalla to stay put — you brushed past Geta, your thoughts consumed by his brother. You didn’t see the way his fist clenched, nor the regret swimming in his eyes. Before you disappeared around the corner, your curiosity got the best of you. “What did I say to you last night, Caesar?”

Geta didn’t bother to turn. “Nothing. It meant nothing.” You frowned, prepared to speak, only for him to beat you to the punch. “Go. Do not keep my brother waiting.”

For a moment, you debated on asking more. Clearly, you told Geta something serious, but, for the life of you, you couldn’t remember what it was. Deep down, creeping its way to the surface, you wanted to stay. To see that same gentle affection he had greeted you with all over again. It was familiar, and you furrowed your brows as the phantom scent of roses circled in your senses. 

Geta was right, though. You shouldn’t keep Caracalla waiting. 

“Goodnight, Caesar.”

Geta didn’t respond, preoccupied by watching the sunset and tugging on a short strand of his fiery hair. You spared him one last glance before you took off running to the spot Caracalla marked on his makeshift map. 

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for you to catch sight of the hill, four praetorians stationed at the bottom of it. You nodded at them and hurried up the incline, desperate to not keep Caracalla waiting any longer than you already had. Distantly, you realized, as you looked over your shoulder, that you could see Geta watching you from the window. He was far enough away that he looked less impressive and more like a speck of red. When you waved, he disappeared behind a curtain. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern, only for it to be quickly stifled when you heard Caracalla’s familiar rasp.

“There you are!” He stood at the top of the hill, scowling down at you. “You kept me waiting. I should feed you to the hounds, dulcis.” 

All thoughts of Geta fell to the wayside when you saw his brother, and with a final burst of strength, you bounded the rest of the way up the hill, and into his arms. You heard him breathe deeply, wrapping his limbs around you, his grip vice-like. “Your map was awful.”

Caracalla hummed, his hand sliding down your spine to grab a handful of your backside. He sniffed you again and nosed your collarbone. “You smell like me. It is as it should be.” When your words registered, he pulled back to hit you with a scandalized glare. “I work tirelessly to create a map to our love nest and you insult it? You insult me!”

Prying yourself from his arms, you took a few steps forward to examine Caracalla’s so-called ‘love nest.’ Draped over the grass was a thick blanket, pillows set up in a circle for two people to lay. In the middle of the blanket was a plate of food, mostly fruits and sweets, betraying the fact that Caracalla had chosen the menu. At first, you believed he had set a slave to organize everything, but the closer you looked, the more obviously haphazard it became.

“Did you do this all yourself?”

Caracalla puffed out his chest, borderline preening. “I did! Is it not perfect, Alga? There is a spot for you, a spot for me, and a spot for our treats.” 

His fingers dug into your upper arms as he steered you toward the blanket. When you didn’t immediately sit, he kicked the backs of your knees, forcing you to the ground. 

“Ow!” You flipped around to glare up at him, ass firmly planted where Caracalla wanted it to be. A puff of air left his nose as his lips twitched into a smirk. “Don’t do that.”

“You are so dramatic, melimelum,” He said with a roll of his eyes. “I can do as I please.” 

Both irritated and fond, you continued to glare at him while he settled in the spot beside you, laying on his side. He gestured for you to join him, his head propped on his fist as he watched you with barely contained affection. 

“Lay down, lover,” He said. “Let me pamper you.” 

You opened your mouth to respond only to be cut off when Caracalla stuffed a pastry between your lips. His fingers delved deeper into your mouth, stroking the insides of your cheeks as he practically choked you on a honeyed danish. When he went too deep, you gagged and swatted his hand away.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” You hissed, mouth full. If this was his idea of pampering, you felt bad for his enemies. He watched you swallow with parted lips before grabbing another danish and aiming for your mouth again. A yelp left you as you rolled out of the way, only for Caracalla to crawl over the dishes and pin you to the blanket. 

He was grinning now, triumphant. “Eat up, melimelum, only the best for my beloved.”

“Caracalla, don’t you dar—” It was dumb to even speak. The second you opened your mouth, another baked good was unceremoniously plunged inside. Cheeks puffed out, you tried to swallow before he could stuff you full of another one. 

A giggle made his shoulders jump. “Adorable. You look like a chipmunk. Open wide, my love, here comes another.”

Unsure of what else to do, you did the only thing you could think of: digging your fingers into his armpits and tickling him. Instantly, his body seized as uncontrollable laughter spilled from his lips. Your fingers danced along his sides until he was loose enough for you to turn the tables on him. Flipping him over, you straddled him now as you pawed at his stomach. His face was red and his eyes had begun to water, shrieking howls belting from his throat as he flailed.

“Punishment, Caesar!” You cried with a grin.

“I’ll sh— show you punishment!” Was the only warning you got before Caracalla jabbed his fingers under your ribcage. You screamed and stopped tickling him to grab your aching side. He cackled, victorious, clambering on top of you once more. Sitting on your chest now, it was hard to breathe with his full weight on top of you. You wheezed out a breath, your lungs empty. Without a dessert this time, he dragged his thumb across your lower lip before sinking it between your teeth to press down on your tongue. Obediently, you opened your mouth, but not before petulantly narrowing your eyes at him.

“Brat,” He snarled, though his grin betrayed him no more than the tent in his tunic. “What would you do if I defiled your mouth, Alga? Degraded you like a whore under your beloved stars.” His other hand began to fist himself over his clothing, his pupils blown. “Tell me, my medicus. What would you do?”

“Swallow,” You said, still playful despite the wetness that was sure to be ruining your underwear. 

That must have been the right thing to say because Caracalla let out a high pitched whine, “Gods, it’s so tempting…”

Nervously, your hands found his hips, fingers pressing into his soft flesh. “Do you… Do you want to do that again?”

“No, melimelum, I want to try something new.” Roughly, he grabbed your wrist and dragged your palm from his hips to his bulge. You gave his cock an experimental squeeze through his tunic, earning a pleased hum. “Use your hand.”

It wasn’t an ask, but a demand, one you found yourself wanting to obey. As your fingers tentatively danced along his length, your gaze flickered to his lips. Caracalla’s grin became wolfish. 

“I want to kiss you while I touch you,” You mumbled. “May I?”

Your innocent question received a sharp laugh from Caracalla, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “Don’t ask, simply do. Experiment on me. I’ll be pliant this once.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

His cock twitched under your palm. “Well, I’ll be your first.” A bit more giddy, he added, “My brother will be beside himself in envy. I’ll be your first kiss and the first cock you’ve ever touched that wasn’t your own. Courtship is simply a battle to be won!” 

His triumph was cut short by a whine when your exploratory fingers teased his sensitive tip. There was a wet spot on his tunic already. Your mind was far too focused on feeling him up, of watching Caracalla’s expressions, to truly pick up on what he was implying. Your eyebrows furrowed when he pried you off and scooted backwards so that you could sit up. His face was flushed, and he replaced his hand with his own, jerking himself in quick strokes as you settled on your knees. Once you were kneeling, Caracalla in a similar position in front of you, he guided your hand under the hem of his tunic to touch his bare flesh.

He was hot. That was the first thing you noticed. His cock was absolutely scorching and wet with precum, making it easy for your palm to glide up and down his shaft. Caracalla’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment before he forced them open, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Kiss me,” He commanded, voice breathy.

That was all you needed to surge forward and press your lips to his. 

Caracalla, like in all things, quickly got excited. His tongue darted out to trace your bottom lip, and you barely opened your mouth before the appendage was down your throat. In your inexperience, you found your hand faltering as you focused on tangling your tongue with his. Logically, it should have felt gross, but you found yourself pressing your thighs together with each whimper and moan Caracalla let out. One of his hands was pulling at your hair, while the other had your wrist in a death grip, forcing you to speed up your motions along the length of his cock. Though you couldn’t see it under his tunic, it felt as thick as he had promised, your thumb swiping over his foreskin. 

He pulled back, panting. “Go faster, Algacula. Like that, yes. Perfect.”

Unwilling to stop kissing him, you did as he demanded all while pressing your lips to his jaw and cheeks. Caracalla’s head was thrown back, exposing his throat, and you felt an idea form in your mind. Gently, you nipped at his neck. 

His hold on your wrist became bruising despite his laugh. “Good whores don’t bite, Alga.” 

“Sorry, Imperator,” The words left you in a quiet murmur and Caracalla groaned as he pulled your hand down to fondle his balls. 

“Feel how full they are for you, my <i>medicus</i>. Gods, I wish I was filling your ass with my seed.” He captured your lips again, tongue barging past your teeth. Pulling you closer, your knees ached despite the blanket, Caracalla jerked himself off with your hand almost violently. He spoke between fervent kisses, praise that went straight to your clit. “That’s it, good, so, so good for me.”

You clenched your thighs together, desperate for friction. For a single, terrifying moment, you felt Caracalla’s hand move from your hair to your thigh. When you flinched, his explorations ceased, moving to knead your ass instead. 

“Caracalla,” You breathed when his lips left yours. 

“Your sweet, patient Caracalla,” He murmured, smirking against you. Though he bit his lip and moaned when you massaged his cock between strokes. “I’m close.”

He moved to kiss you again, but you dodged, receiving a frustrated growl in return. 

“Kiss me more, Alga,” He demanded. 

All you did was smile. “Let me see you come undone. I love your expressions.” 

“A show is what my medicus wants? Then watch.”

Half-lidded eyes gazed into your own, his lower lip red from being worried by his top teeth. Your breath caught with each flex of his hips as he chased his high, fucking your hand. 

“I love you,” He said, a strain to his voice, though not lacking in conviction. Speeding up your hand, you felt his cock begin to swell. “I love you, Alga. Say it back. Mean it. I need to hear you say it. Give me your heart fuck— say it!”

“I love you too.” And you meant it.

With a cry, Caracalla came, coating your hand in semen with each frantic pulse of his cock. He wouldn’t let you release him — not that you would — riding out his orgasm with his eyes rolled back in his head. Finally, he slumped, face nestled in your shoulder. 

“Do you really?” Caracalla sounded small, almost vulnerable.

You pressed a kiss to his crown. “With all my heart.” 

“Gods,” He groaned. “I could fuck you right now if I wasn’t so spent. If only you would let me.”

Careful not to smear cum on his tunic, you removed your hand to stare at the thick fluid coating your fingers. You glanced at him, breathing hard with his forehead against your shoulder. When you were certain he wasn’t looking, you gave your hand a sniff. It  smelled like chlorine. Weird. Curious, your tongue darted out to taste it, only for your nose to scrunch. Eugh. Bitter.

A groan caught your attention and you turned to see Caracalla tiredly watching you, frustration evident as he brought his fist against the ground. “Damn my cock, it won’t get hard again. Damn it all!” 

“Do you have a rag?”

Cocking his head to the side, he smirked at you. “Lick it clean, melimelum.”

“… It tastes gross, Caracalla.”

Scandalized, he drew back. “No, it is nectar! My concubines can attest!”

“They are lying to you.” You held out your cum covered hand. “Here, taste.”

Disgust was his primary emotion before it gave way to tentative curiosity. Caracalla leaned forward to lick you, and, just as yours had, his nose scrunched. “Vile! Yes, a cloth is in order.” He looked around to find one and found none. “Wipe it on the blanket.”

You really didn’t want to ruin the wool, so you wiped your hand in the grass. “There. You have impregnated the earth.”

“If only you had a womb, Alga,” Caracalla mused, and you felt yourself awkwardly looking off towards the distance. “I’d fill you full with heir after heir.”

“How romantic,” You deadpanned.

“Alga.” Caracalla was serious now, moving so that his face was inches from yours. “You handle a cock like you have never touched even your own. Surely, you’ve fucked your hand at the very least.”

“I have masturbated!” You said before you could stop yourself, a flush to your cheeks. 

A flicker of disappointment crossed his features. “So you have experienced an orgasm before. A shame, I was hoping to give you your first.” Devolving into a whine, he threw his arms around you and buried his face into your chest. “When do I get to see you in ecstasy, dulcissimus. You are driving me insane with only my fantasties to satiate me.”

“One day,” You said noncommittally. Despite this, you tenderly threaded your fingers with his hair, smiling when you got a pleased purr in return. 

Caracalla grinned up at you, not put off in the least. “I cannot wait to defile you, my Vestal.”

If you were being honest with yourself — and the ache between your legs — you wanted it to happen sooner than later. You only hoped that Caracalla would like what he would find. Instead of focusing on that, however, you leaned back until you were laying, Caracalla nestled against your chest. Above you the stars glittered, and though your hand still felt a little sticky, you felt happy.

“I cannot believe my concubines lied to me, my semen is rotten,” Caracalla broke the silence with a complaint.

All you did was laugh. “They wanted to appease their emperor.”

“That is why you are my lover, Alga.” Caracalla placed his palm flat over your breast, seemingly to feel your heartbeat. When he found what he wanted, his eyes slid shut. “You do not appease me, you tell me hard truths. I have grown tired of simpering masses, all I need is my medicus.”

“Well, you have him.”

“And I will never let him go.”

You weren’t sure if Caracalla understood just how mutual that feeling was. 

A/N: Guess who!!! It’s me, Milo, back with another chapter! I had to re-read all of this fic before I got back on the horse, and, like… I am my own worst critic 100%. I got my beef with a couple of things in this fic, but ultimately, GODDAMN. Dare I say, I cooked. I get why y’all enjoy this silly little story so much, wowza…

Full disclosure, updates will probably be pretty slow. I’m at kind of, um… a deeply harrowing rough patch in my life right now with some family stuff, on top of working 40 hours a week while being a part time employee. I have this sort of evil ass writing cycle, where I cook super fast for about a month or two and then burn out for a month or two, rinse and repeat. Thank you to everyone who was patient and is still sticking with this story!! Okay, now onto some explaining.

First off, ‘Dilecto, Alga,’ while not conjugated properly because I didn’t feel like it, can be translated to ‘Beloved, Alga’ or ‘Dear, Alga.’ Basically, Caracalla is a sap. A huge, huge sap. Speaking of which, what he wanted to tell Alga on his date was that he loves them. His plan was that he was going to confess under the stars and then Alga would be like [Sparkly anime eyes] “Oh, Caracalla, I love you too! Take me, here and now!!” and then they’d have nasty, nasty sex outside. However, he got wayyyyy too horny and jumped the gun.

Funny thing about the date too, stargazing was not Caracalla’s idea. It was Geta’s, which he implies when talking to Alga. Caracalla couldn’t think of a good date idea and Geta was like “Well, here’s what I’d do…” And Caracalla stole his idea. Which he’s so normal and not livid about. They’re soooo brothers. The map, however, was a complete Caracalla original. He thought it’d be romantic! If it was Geta, he would have had a trail of rose petals lead you to him. Just an FYI.

Btw, for all Geta enjoyers, trust that he stayed up up the entire night absolutely PLAGUED with jealousy. He said he didn’t want Alga to remember his affection when they were drunk, but god, he was lying. He wants them to remember, he wants them to be his too, he wants them so bad it hurts. Miserable yearner Geta is reaching terminal velocity. Stay tuned to watch him self destruct <33

Man, again, thank you everyone for sticking around and reading. I seriously appreciate you. I do implore you to comment if you enjoyed this chapter, I’m a bit nervous to get back on the DNBTS horse, so I’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts!!! There is also the fact I am not very good at writing smut, it haunts me. How do people write 2k words of just smut? It’s seriously so impressive, I can manage 1k MAX.

I’m sorry I was gone so long, ‘tis the cycle of the me unfortunately. I’m really not sure what else to say here, just, man… Thank y’all so much.

tag list: @snazzynacho , @t6gse370 , @cherrysweets-world , @justlibra , @001mon

[bakedmandos]

HES ALIVE AND WELL IM NOT DELUSIONAL AT ALL