rotprincess

[rotprincess]

Hold me manchild, let me soothe your ache

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

[rotprincess]

big mt shenanigans

[rotprincess]

[rotprincess]

☹ ahem, don't mind me being evil but...

Evil twin + marianus's life saving surgery... (If he didn't make it)

This was all your fault. You stood, covered in another man’s blood, dumbfounded when you realized his heart was no longer beating. Marianus’ chest cavity was open, you could see that his ventricles had gone still. At first, when he stopped moving, you had thought the pain had become too great and he’d finally, blessedly gone into shock. You had kept working, kept stitching, and cutting, and cauterizing until Aelius let out a choked noise. Marianus had died on your table, and it was all your fault.

The praetorians took care of the body. Marianus was to be sent back to his family where they would perform a proper burial. Before that, though, you sewed him back up. Stitched, haphazard through the tears in your eyes, but empty save for his guts. Aelius left with them. Not before he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder before disappearing through the door. Justina had left as well, likely to tell Geta and Caracalla the news.

Good news to them, you realized through the grief. They had wanted Marianus dead. It was you who killed him, though. Why couldn’t you have been better? Steadier? More skilled, and more determined? Marianus took that blade meant for you, and you had failed to return the favor. You had failed at the one thing you were good at.

This wasn’t the first time you had lost a patient, but this was the first time you had known him, and this was the first time this was your surgery alone. Before, you had better supplies, more hands, better medicine, more experienced surgeons. Here, in Rome, all you had was yourself.

It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough. A sob built in the back of your throat while you vigorously scrubbed Marianus’ blood from your arms. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, your own blood replacing your dead friend’s. A part of you wanted to take your anger out on Geta and Caracalla. They were taking Marianus to be executed before this, but the truth of the matter hung heavy on your shoulders. If you saved Marianus, they would have let him live, and you failed.

That night, you slept with the door locked, closed before Caracalla could get inside. At first he begged, then he scrabbled at the door like a dog, before he began to scream obscenities. You didn’t sleep, you let yourself listen to them. To remind yourself that Caracalla was right. You were being selfish, you were cruel and unkind, that you needed him, and that you deserved to be alone. The latter came when he finally gave up. Once it was silent, you let yourself cry again.

Morning came and went. Caracalla didn’t return until the afternoon where he found your door still locked. At first he was angry before that gave way to concern, then that gave way to terror. Geta’s voice joined his later. You agreed with him, you were throwing a tantrum, but Marianus was more than ‘some soldier,’ his life was in your hands. Like Caracalla, his anger faltered when you didn’t respond, and before you knew it, your door was off its hinges and four praetorians were dragging you from your bed.

You were too out of it to see the relief on Geta’s face when you stood in the hallway, your gaze fixated on your bare feet. Caracalla clung to you, and though you were so very tired, you carded your fingers through his hair.

Geta spoke first, hard, but not unyielding. “Does the death of one soldier truly weigh so heavily on your conscience?”

“If I cannot save even one life, then what use am I?”

You made Caracalla cry with that.

Truly, what use were you?

[rotprincess]

Please please please flip flop for Geta during that final argument scene in the latest chapter <33333

For a number of nights, Geta kept having this terrible, persistent nightmare that you would leave him. Caracalla finally found a new caretaker, one who hadn’t failed him half as much as Geta had, and you had found yourself a lover. He was no longer needed, and until he woke up again, he was alone. Every morning after, Geta was plagued by nausea so fierce, he could hardly stomach water, let alone anything substantial. Still, the nightmare didn't plague him often, he could endure. Geta could always endure.

That was until the night his brother courted you. Caracalla bragged about it incessantly the next day. How you told him that you loved him and you touched him so innocently. He made sure to emphasize how you only had one first kiss you could give, and he had received it. Not Geta, not any other man, but him. Geta endured that too, kept his breathing even and his face bored even when he wanted to scream and pound his fists against the floor. It wasn’t until that night when the nightmare returned, worse than ever.

Geta was forced to watch those words leave your lips. That you loved Caracalla, that he was the only one you’d ever adore, and then you left with him. Left Geta alone, without his twin, and without his love, completely and utterly alone in an empire that hated him. He could only bear it once. He knew if he slept again, those terrible visions would beset him once more. So, he did not sleep. He did not eat, he only worked. Sometimes, he would allow himself to fantasize that he was lazing his days away with you instead of wasting away, hating himself.

When you came to him, told him that you cared and that you worried, Geta almost believed that he had fallen asleep. That you were some cruel hallucination sent to satiate him while reality only caused him grief. But, you fed him — you had remembered he was fond of olives, you had admitted you watched him — and massaged him, and led him to bed. Where, despite your presence, you left him again, taking his brother with you. When he awoke, you were gone.

It had hurt him more than he could describe when he found you in the presence of slaves. He was an emperor, while they were property, did you truly think so little of him to abandon him for their sake? Was he truly no more than an object to you? How could you afford your kindness to those who couldn’t fathom what a sindle, tender touch from you meant to him?

So he yelled. He blamed, and he grabbed, and he pushed. Geta tried to tell you his feelings, but they came out through a filter of anger and jealousy. He wanted you to understand, to see him just as you saw Caracalla, to afford him the same patience. Couldn’t you see that he needed you?

But, you had gone too far. You reminded him how alone and hated he was, that the people wanted him dead, and the senate wanted him deposed. Where would he be then? Without you, or his brother, he had nothing.

Geta reacted without thinking, and regretted it in seconds. There was blood on your face, and it stained his ring that had cut you. He hated himself then, though he had yet to realize what this action meant for him. How far he had fallen. You screamed and threw whatever you could get your hands on at him. He wanted to stay, truly, he did. Geta wanted to hold you until you stopped moving, to murmur apologies into your hair until you understood, to make you see him, but you were so angry. It made him angry too, that he was the cause of this.

Geta always had to get the last word, and just with the slap, he regretted it as soon as it happened. With his back against your clinic door, he thought about opening it again. Maybe, you would be calm soon.

You didn’t. That night, Geta was once again besieged by nightmares, of himself alone and hated, fearing they were prophecies meant to come true.

His ring was stained with your blood. He threw it out of his bedroom window

[rotprincess]

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.

[rotprincess]

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.

[rotprincess]

[rotprincess]

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

[rotprincess]

#wanna get under that

[rotprincess]

sorry bro I didn't hear your bit I got a little distracted reflecting upon my inadequacies

[rotprincess]

ride a horse, fuck a ghoul, or something like that

[rotprincess]

if i lived all my life outside in the wasteland or whatever and i came across a vault dweller first time out of the vault ever never seen the outside before i would 100% fuck with them. id tell them i eat people or something. i would fuck with them itd be so easy

[rotprincess]

i love the idea of a former vault dweller in caesar's legion.

Imagine growing up between four walls. Imagine being raised beneath the earth, buried like your ancestors two centuries ago. Imagine having nothing but the stories they've been telling you since the day of your birth: That only the Vault is safe. That the world above is hell. And that one day, your kind will rise, step into the ruins, and rebuild it all.

Then one day, for whatever reason, you leave your vault behind. You see the sun for the first time, see the vast corpse of America waiting. They've taught you all about it before, the desert, the radiation, the sickness.

Yet you are young, watching a terrifying freedom stare right back at you. You take a step forward.

There is a man with a name you recognise from the history books they forced you to read in class. He speaks of carrying the "torch of civilization" into this tribal, backward wasteland.

You’ve never seen Arizona before, but you've been told it's a savage place. You've been told everywhere is savage.

You are young, and the wasteland is cold. There are men in red dreaming of building a grand nation and you dream with them. You will bring order to this "hellish" desert. You will rebuild it. Just as they taught you to.

You join. And the people are strange. Boys all around your age chant in a dead tongue to dead gods of a long gone empire. You wear their red, but you are not quite like them, not with your well-nourished body accustomed to stimpacks and soft mattresses. Childhood memories of weekly movie nights, yellow-blue overalls, jazz music, algebra and father shooing you out of the cigar lounge keep haunting your nights.

You are not quite like them but you go on. You are young and the Bull welcomes you for now. You go on. The Caesar orders and you kill, you pillage, you torture in his name. You are cruel because you have to be or maybe you've always this way. Maybe something was different inside you from the start. Maybe you've always been so messed up.

Somewhere, in a shadowy corner of your mind that you dare not linger too much you wonder if all of this is right. Maybe you made the wrong choice the moment you saw the sun maybe you shouldn't have left your vault. But its too late now, this is your life and you can never go back home.

You are still young yet your hair has specks of grey showing in the reflection. The world has not been kind and neither has the Legion.

Yet you are young and the wasteland is cold and the torch burns bright and red is the only colour you can remember now.

or something like that idk man, i dont really know much about vaults.

[rotprincess]

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—��� you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say *don’t*.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

[rotprincess]

remmick isn't a smooth suave dom who would talk like a prince he would probably sit and beg and try to rip his hair out if the sun is about to go down and you won't let him into your house and he's white trash and a loser and he got half his head blown off by a guitar and his first word was 'shit' and he was getting his ass beat the entire movie he 100% has a dad laugh and would burp really loudly and grossly after feeding just to annoy you and he really said "we'll walk real slow in case y'all change your mind," with his full chest when he got rejected and he wears suspenders with a belt and he had just two gold coins like the broke ass he is and on top of that he's also disgusting and perverted and terrifying for threatening grace with SA and i wish y'all acknowledged and incorporated what a weirdo creep and pathetic guy he is into your writing because sometimes it feels like im reading one of those mafia dom fics with how ooc he is ☹️

[rotprincess]

Samsung Mymy MY-A245R (1996)