𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒

not everyday was caracalla affectionate. he was moody sometimes— angry at you even when someone else had provoked him.

but tonight?

tonight he couldn’t stop adoring you; you had no idea what had gotten into him. caracalla was never this affectionate, at least without jealousy or a beverage involved.

“do you love me?” the man mumbled, it was muffled against your skin. his breath was warm and sticking to you without delay. “of course,” you hummed, slipping fingers into the crown of his head, gently guiding your fingers through the soft and messy locks.

instantly Caracalla folded, the candlelight bounced of his face and illuminated each shadow and crevice with purpose. he was handsome, you certainly couldn’t deny such a fact. his eyes were soft, a light pink and red hue danced around his eyelids as the rest of his skin lay pale and untouched.

his lips were a little chapped, proof of him picking and biting them after todays timeline

“—you?”

Perking up, your mind cleared. You hadn’t even realized you spaced out until the jumbles of his words came to.

“I’m sorry, my love, what was that?”

the man beside you shuddered at such an endearment. He felt so warm, so comfortable in your presence.

“I said, do you know I love you?” Letting out a quiet snicker, a nod was given. “of course, I see it in your eyes, husband.”

Caracalla frowned, confusion blotted his features. “My… eyes?”

Soft fingers glided against his cheek, to which he leaned into trustingly. A thumb traced the underside of his eye, gently tracing random shapes and letters unconsciously.

“Mmh, you look at me the way Dondus looks at his snacks, my love.”

He couldn’t help but let out a bubble of laughter. wrinkles began to form around his eyes from such a joyous action, however his vision never faltered from admiring your blushing face. “I’m serious! You— you do!”

“Angel, what an odd way of phrasing such a thing!” Joining him in the barrage of giggles, you slumped onto him, digging your chin into the crevice of his neck.

“You’re not much of a poet, even I could have thought of better,”

You gasped, with hands now holding you upright on his chest a mischievous glint was caught in Caracallas eyes. “You jest, husband, surely. I’m more of a poet than you could ever be!”

“Oh?” The emperor challenged. Already taking advantage of this new position, both arms wrapped around your waist, prohibiting you from moving even an inch away.

“Mhm! Don’t you remember the last full moon? The festivities— the worshipping I gave—,”

A big, warm hand stopped you from going further, covering the entirety of your mouth and a giggle burst against the skin.

“I am more than aware of such a night, quiet it down before someone hears you.”

Although the walls were thick, and no one would ever think of disturbing such high power; there was celebration below, citizens from far and near joined in tonight’s merriment and Caracalla didn’t need anyone hearing of such a frivolous act between the two of you.

Feeling particularly bold, a light nibble was given to the man. Startled by such a sharp pain, the hand was removed and you were (temporarily), free to do as you pleased. Not sparing even a moment, your lips brushed against Caracallas ear with mischievous purpose. “Don’t you want them to know im yours? Have me scream your name in pleasure—“

“Careful,” The ginger seethed, already shuffling uncomfortably under you. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, wife.”

“And who said I couldn’t finish, husband?” Suddenly, a grip was bestowed onto the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your soft lips collided with rougher ones.

Submitting into him, you allowed the pushing and shoving of his tongue, the way his hands pulled at your robes and squeezed each open crevice of skin they could find.

Caracalla quickly pulled back, a string of saliva followed suit and a dazed— hungry look was swimming in his vision.

“Angel?”

Your hands shakily moved across his form, undoing and untying his garments haphazardly.

A wet hum left you, you were so busy with the action you failed to notice his eyes upon you.

And how in love the man looked, felt while beside your side.

His eyes, half lidded and flooded with affection never faltered.

The way you looked in the moonlight, how the silk you were wearing was slowly dragging down your shoulders messily.

Your braids were undone, pulled in every which way from Caracallas hands—and your face?

Gods, there was a reason he called you angel.

No one looked as beautiful as you, and he doubted such a being ever would.

“I love you,” finally the words left him— shoved their way out like spilled wine upon cobblestone.

You smiled, big and wide.

“and I you, my love.”

“I will not.” He croaks through his tears, turning his back towards you. With a sigh, you sink to your knees, extending your open arms towards him.

You wait for Caracalla to find his sense. After a few moments, He finally turns to you to reveal his face—pale, rosy, and wet.

“Has brother sent you to scold me? I am no child!” Spite coats his words. You smile at the absurdity. He could order your head on a pike if he so pleased, but prefers for you to indulge his brooding. A god-king with the whims of a spurned child.

“No, I do not seek to scold, little prince. Come now, so that I may hold you.”

And with that, the emperor crawls to you.

He settles into your arms and you cradle his torso, the luxurious fabric of his ornate robes pooling at your lap. His cheek rests atop your bosom like a newborn babe—he weeps like one too.

“It is unjust! Brother always has the last word, yet I am eldest!” Caracalla laments, his tears wet the bodice of your stola.

You use your free hand to smooth tendrils of copper hair away from his damp face. A tantrum of this magnitude was not uncommon for the young emperor, though you often wondered how a man could display such behaviors at the age of twenty and one. Caracalla was distinctly tender, despite his blood lust. His ego was delicate, easily wounded by Geta’s pragmatism and rigid sensibility.

“He wishes to be rid of me, I know it.” He sniffles, his hand reaching to fiddle with the pendant resting at the base of your neck. You smile softly despite growing weary of this routine.

“Don’t be without reason, mea dulcis. You are invaluable to Rome and all her subjects. Geta speaks without tact when he is cross. You must know this too, hmm?”

Caracalla thinks for a moment, brows knitting together in contemplation.

“He is unkind. It should have been him to suffer in the womb, not I.”

You can’t help but laugh at his juvenile description of his brother's malicious cruelty. Frustration flashes across Caracalla’s face as water threatens to brim his eyes again.

“Peace, my lamb. No more tears.” You coo, using a thumb to swipe away at the wetness—but it is too late. Your laughter invited a new wave of angry tears. He buries his face in your breasts, jeweled fingers dragging down the fabric of your stola. His mouth quickly finds your nipple. You hiss, resisting the urge to pull him away from your flesh.

It brings the emperor great comfort to suckle you. Geta had explained Caracalla’s affliction once before.

“Our own mother denied him her breast; she believed him to be cursed. Perhaps he held on to that trangression. He called for a wet nurse until the age of ten and two. My brother has always suffered from madness, you see.”

You had taken prior notice of this habit. After he fucks you like an animal in heat, he often drifts back to your tit, lazily sucking and nibbling until sleep takes him. You thought nothing of it until emperor Geta revealed it’s cause to you.

And though you had no milk to bear, tranquility came over the man as if he had been fed. Eyes closed and breath even, he plays with a tendril of your hair as he rolls your swollen nipple in his hot mouth—lost in bliss. It is odd, but you pity him. With his lips so flush against you and his expression finally at peace, one could forget the madness, the carnage, the rage.

Sometime later, Caracalla regains his composure, standing straight with his shoulders back, returning to a proud and stately posture. He crudely wipes the spit from his chin with the back of his hand.

Their father sits nearby, King Baldwin, your husband, your love, wrapped as always in his layers of linen and cloth. The mask rests on his face, pale and unmoving, yet his eyes find you as easily as it always has.

You know he wants to sit with you three. You can see the longing in his eyes. But you know why he refuses to join you.

It is your eldest who talks first.

“Tell it again,” she whispers, tugging gently at your sleeve. “How you met Father.”

You smile, looking toward Baldwin. His head tilts ever so slightly, approval, and interest. As if he also wished to hear the story.

“Again?” you tease.

“Yes,” your youngest insists, already crawling into your lap. “It’s my favourite.”

You press a kiss to her temple and begin with the story.

“You must remember, I was not meant to meet your father at all. I was sent to the court for entirely different reasons. I thought him distant. Cold, even.”

A noise of amusement leaves Baldwin. You choose to ignore him and continue.

“He said very little. Watched everything. It was quite unsettling.”

“I was observing,” he replies calmly.

“You were judging,” you counter.

“I was deciding,” he corrects.

The girls giggle.

“And what did you decide?” your eldest asks.

“That your mother was the most stubborn woman I had ever met.”

You gasp softly in mock offence.

“I was not.”

“You refused to bow properly,” he continues.

“I tripped,” you argue.

“You glared at me.”

“I was embarrassed!”

The girls dissolve into laughter, clinging to you.

“And then?” the youngest prompts, eyes wide.

“And then I realised,” you say, glancing at Baldwin, “that your father was not cold at all. Only careful. Kind, in ways that were quiet and easily missed.”

Baldwin stares at you. Even behind the mask, you feel it as clearly as if his face were bare.

“And I realised that your mother saw me as I was. Not as others feared.”

Silence falls, soft and full.

The youngest shifts slightly, her small fingers fidgeting.

“Father?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yes, little one?”

“Will we ever see your face? Or your hands?”

The question hangs in the air.

Almost knocks all of it out.

Your heart tightens, but Baldwin does not flinch. Instead, he leans forward slightly in his chair.

“My sweet girl, my body is… different. It is something I must protect, and something that could make others afraid if they do not understand.”

She frowns.

“But we wouldn’t be afraid.”

“I know, I know you would not. But part of loving someone is also keeping them safe. And this,” he gestures faintly to himself, “is how I do that.”

The eldest considers this carefully.

“So it’s like armour?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says with a nod. “Something like that.”

The youngest leans into you, still thinking.

“But we know what you look like,” she says suddenly.

Baldwin tilts his head. “Oh?”

She nods, very certain.

“You have the prettiest eyes, Mama says so.”

Your breath catches, and you smile, brushing her hair back.

“It’s true. The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.”

Baldwin is still for a moment, but you speak up before him.

“And you both have them,” you continue, looking between your daughters. “His eyes. Bright and strong.”

The eldest beams. The youngest gasps in delight.

“We do?”

“You do. Both of you.” Your husband confirms.

They look at him now, completely unbothered by cloth or crown or anything else the world might whisper.

“Then we look like you,” the eldest says proudly.

“You do,” he repeats.

You shift slightly, gathering both girls closer.

The four of you, tucked into a small world of warmth and love.

“Tell us another story,” the youngest mumbles sleepily.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her hair before helping them both to lie down in their beds.

And as your daughters drift to sleep, you meet his eyes once more.

You do not need to see his face.

You never did.

~Masterlist~