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Worth Remembering - 15

Part 14 | Masterlist

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

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

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

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

Chapter warnings: Geta is giving wet cat energy; Caracalla being a gremlin; very strongly implied domestic violence (Macrinus is a terrible husband); PiV sex; Oral sex (both m and f receiving); Caracalla being completely normal about bodily fluids; do I have to tag ball sucking?; I'll tag it because the RC is very freaky about Caracalla's balls; breeding kink; overstimulation

Word count: 8.1k

Pre-scriptum

There was something there — Geta comes to a halt. It could not be, could it? Of course not, but perhaps he should check. Furrowing his brows, he retraces his steps and looks into the small sitting room he just passed. It could not be, there you are: sitting on the windowsill, only half covered by the curtains. Intuitively he takes a step aside, hiding behind the door. Feeling quite foolish he looks at your leg, which you are swinging lazily. Your feet are bare.

‘Are you just going to stand there?’ you suddenly call out.

You lean forward and look at him. Your hair is undone, hanging lushly over your shoulders. To keep yourself warm, you have thrown a thick blanket over yourself. And your belt — the nodus Herculaneus — is missing. So his brother has performed his husbandly duties. Then what are you doing here, in a lonesome sitting room? Dawn is still hours away. Your wedding night is not at an end.

Whatever it is, there is no reason for Geta to act so childishly. He can talk to you. Like a normal person.

He steps forward as you sit up straight, supporting yourself by placing your hands on the windowsill. He inquires, ‘Did you flee your marriage bed already, sister?’

‘Caracalla has drunk too much wine. He fell fast asleep as soon as he had undone my belt.’

That idiot: then he is bestowed the honor of being your husband and he cannot even take care of you. By the gods, if you were Geta’s, you would not have left that room for days.

Blissfully unaware of Geta’s sinful thoughts, you go on, ‘And then Telesina began to cry. And now I am wide awake and desperate for some space. Did there have to be so many people attending the feast?’

‘You did not just marry anyone,’ Geta reminds you.

You just shrug. ‘What are you up to, Geta, at this ungodly hour?’

Only moments ago he was trying to fuck a matron who most likely has not been brought to orgasm for years, but halfway his cock had gone limp. In all honesty, he was in the midst of a walk of shame back to his chambers. He planned to drown himself in wine as to forget that some rooms down the hall his brother was doing gods knows what to your body. Yet, you do not need to know that, so he only answers, ‘I like the palace best after parties. When all has gone quiet and still.’

You hum. ‘I will say this now, because I think I can get away with this only in this very moment.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Get away with… What are you doing, Thurina?’

‘I like how you always line your eyes with kohl.’ You let out an amused chuckle. ‘I wanted to say it for so long now, but well… you always appear so angry with me. This time not, so… It suits you well. I think it is cute.’

Cute. You just called him, an emperor of Rome, cute. Although there is a generous amount of distance between the two of you, it feels as if you are too close by. What if he cannot keep himself under control? It would be so easy to hold you tight and just… just…

‘You should be with your husband.’

You roll your eyes. ‘You cannot take a compliment, can you?’

You are already taking your leave when he speaks up, ‘I am not angry with you.’

You look back at him over your shoulder and hum questioningly.

‘I never have been. It is just…’ He presses his fingertips in his closed eyes and groans, ‘Gods, go to your husband, Thurina.’

‘Goodnight, brother.’

When you slip back under the covers of your matrimonial bed, your husband stirs. Groaning slightly he seeks out your body, pressing his face into the softness of your breasts.

'Where did you go?’ he murmurs.

‘Telesina was crying. Then I went for a walk, came across Geta who looked a bit like a wet cat,’ you answer in a whisper. ‘The palace is all silent now. It’s nice.’

‘Do not…’ He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. ‘You are not leaving again until I’ve… We have…’

He trails off, taking a deep breath before his breathing takes on a steady rhythm again. Fast asleep he is the full likeness of serenity. It almost seems a likelihood that you could fall in love with him. Almost. Comforted by the warmth of his touch and the steady rhythm of his breathing, you submerge into sleep swiftly. An hour or so before dawn the both of you are awoken by Telesina’s crying. Remnants of sleep still cloud your head, but you simply cannot ignore your baby’s cries. Caracalla tries to keep you abed, but the aftermath of his binge drinking has set in, so it is quite easy to pry his hands off of you. As you feed Telesina, you send a slave off to find a balm of mint and lavender. Telesina is already wide awake and refuses to be simply laid back into her crib. The urge to remain by her side and keep a watchful eye over her is almost numbing, but you know your husband will be disagreeable should he wake in an empty bed. With the little jar of minty balm, you return to your chambers where Caracalla has somehow found a way to sprawl his short limbs all over the bed. You slip between his body and the siderest of the bed, practically caging yourself in.

‘I have a headache,’ he murmurs, apparently already quite awake.

‘I thought so,’ you answer as you remove the lid from the jar.

While he lingers between sleep and the waking world, you rub the balm of mint and lavender against his temples with your fingertips. Gradually the sun sets over another cloudy December day. You study your husbands features: his plump nose, dry lips, the redness around his eyes, the relief of acne and old scars on his cheeks. Perhaps you should have brought some water to wash away the whiteness on his cheeks. Such powder when covering the skin too long can be quite irritating. You massage the back of his head with your fingers, relishing the tickle of his red curls against your skin, and sink into a light slumber. After quite a while you feel him stirring against you as he stretches his body. He lets out a deep groan as he does so.

‘Wife,’ he mutters, ‘it is time we… we… Gods, your touch feels nice.’

‘Does your head still hurt?’ You do not open your eyes, too comfortable as you are.

‘Y-yes, terribly so, but your…’ He hums, body relaxing once more against yours. ‘You take such good care of me.’

‘Why do I spoil you so, I wonder? After all, you have yourself to blame for your current, pathetic state.’

‘I’m not pathetic,’ he grumbles, yet he still pulls you closer — if that is remotely possible.

‘Are you not? I remember well the many promises you made to me about our wedding night, sweetness. The last weeks you spoke about almost nothing except of what you were to do to me once you got me into your bed.’ You laugh softly. ‘What an anticlimax.’

‘I’ll — I’ll bring you to climax,’ he grumbles as he sits up on his knees.

You open your eyes, only to see how he squeezes his shut and places the heels of his hands against his temples.

‘Hurts,’ he whines.

‘Lie back down, Caracalla.’ You tug a his arm and he settles in next to you on his side.

His pretty blue eyes are lined with red.

‘Serves you right,’ you whisper, ‘for getting drunk on our wedding feast.’

Before he can protest you press a peck of a kiss against his lips, which makes him relent almost immediately.

‘Do that again,’ he mutters.

And as any good wife, you do as your husband bids you. When he insists on one more, however, you note, ‘Go to sleep. Saturnalia begins today. At noon, you and your brother will have to make a sacrifice to Jupiter or the festivities cannot begin.’

‘Let Geta do it,’ he grumbles, ‘he is better at playing the god than I am either way. I want to stay here, with my wife.’

‘Your wife is going to see to your daughter.’ You push yourself up on the palms of your hands and then lean in to place a last kiss on his cheek. ‘Sleep and I will make sure the slaves bring you something against your immense hangover.’

He grumbles something and tries to pull you back into bed, but as weak as he is now, you slip away easily. You retreat into your daughter’s room. She nibbles on the fabric of the catlike doll Lucilla gifted her, as a set of slaves help you dress in a dark green stola. Once dressed, you take Telesina with you to the triclinium. The Praetorians following you around are a bit less rigid than usual. They must have indulged a bit too much in last night’s festivities, you suppose. In the dining room, you find not only a decadent breakfast table, but also your brother-in-law. It does not appear that he has slept well, given the dark, deep circles under his eyes.

‘Good morning, brother,’ you greet him as you take a seat opposite of him.

‘Sister,’ he only says.

For a while you sit in silence, which you do not much mind. You have already finished a dish of nuts and yogurt, when Geta speaks up, ‘Where is my brother?’

‘Still abed. He has a headache.’

Geta closes his eyes as if praying to the gods. On your lap, Telesina reaches for one of the dishes on the table.

‘No, you cannot eat that yet.’ You adjust her position and then tell Geta, ‘He will see to his duties, do not fret.’

‘Knowing him, he will just lay in bed the whole day and leave all the boring work to me. Yet, rest assured, tomorrow he will be present at the gladiator games. For he would never miss that.’

You grin at Geta’s complaints.

‘I told you, he will be present at the sacrifice.'

‘You sound so sure.’

‘I will drag him out of bed myself.’ You carefully rock your little girl on your leg and she lets out a soft giggle.

‘Why do you take care of her so?’ Geta asks.

You blink and look at him. ‘Are you asking why I look after my own child?’

‘A woman of your station does not have to…’ He shakes his head and takes a sip of his cup. ‘There are dozens of slave women in the household who would be able to take care of her.’

‘She is often looked after by them,’ you note.

What is he trying to prove here?

‘Yes, but… Still, you could have left her with a nanny so you could eat in peace.’

‘You dislike her sitting at your table?’

‘No, of course I do not. She is —’ He throws the cup aside and you frown at the water spilled all over the floor. As he sits straight, he goes on, ‘You could take on a wet nurse, yet you insist on feeding her yourself.’

‘Why would I take on a wet nurse, when my body is perfectly capable of nurturing her?’

‘By the gods, how contrary you are!’ He lets out a sigh. ‘Most women of your station barely spend any time with their children, they leave most of it and definitely all the unpleasant parts to the slave women, yet you —’

‘Are you berating me for wanting to be a good mother to my daughter?’

‘I am not berating you, Thurina.’

‘Then what… Aha.’ Now you see it clearly in his dark eyes. ‘Are you trying to compliment me, Geta?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Either you are insulting me or you are praising me.’

He swallows down. ‘You are a good mother.’

‘Thank you.’ And after a moment of silence, ‘Why does my behavior baffle you so?’

He scoffs and refrains from answering.

You find your sister in the gardens. Gesturing to the Praetorians to remain where they are, you approach her as if you were nearing a wounded deer. Behind you, the music and laughter from the Saturnalia festivities flow into a amorphous clamor. The oil lamps illuminating the peristyle draw the shadows in the garden out into long, eerie shapes. For the entire duration of the festivities you have been trying to find a moment to speak with your sister in private. If you were not hindered by some patrician ladies flocking around you with compliments on your pink stola, then it was Macrinus who stood in your way. How Nona has managed to put a distance between herself and her husband now, you do not know. Perhaps Caracalla’s insistence on Macrinus’s attention had done the trick.

As soon as you sit down next to Nona on the stone bench, she looks up at you. In the remnants of the orange light that reach only so far in the garden, you can see your and Nona’s breath evaporating in the cold December night. You should not be out here for too long.

‘Empress,’ Nona says, bowing her head.

‘Don’t you dare to do that,’ you grumble.

‘You are empress now, Thurina.’

‘And I will always be your sister.’ You reach for her hands. ‘Nona, what does he do to you?’

Others may close their eyes to the make-up so obviously covering up the bruises on her neck, or her sudden inclination to silence — but you do not.

‘What most husbands do their disobedient wives, I reckon.’

‘Nona —’

‘No need to worry. I am silent and still now. Just as he likes me.’ Even you can taste the bitterness of these words.

She attempts to free her hands from you grip, but you do not let her. And to think she has only been married to Macrinus for a month. How is she to endure a lifetime of marriage to this viper? Once more you are confronted with an obvious, yet daunting task: something has to be done about Macrinus.

‘I am so sorry, sister.’

‘I am too.’ She lets out a trembling sigh. ‘I overreached. I should have settled on whatever match Geta had made for me in the summer. I should never… You must know, I did not intend to fall in love with Lucius.’

‘Cupido is merciless.’

She gives a shy nod. ‘I just fear he will die in that place. Pandataria.’

As if prolonging a grim tradition, the emperors have sent Lucius to the island where many dishonored members of the first imperial dynasty were banished to. Since his exile, Caracalla has barely suffered you speaking a single word on the matter. Reminders of Lucius Verus’s mere existence set him on edge. That worries you. If he is still so afraid of the man now, he may do something foolish. Lucius Verus would not be the first to die from starvation on that island. But he is one of the few men in the empire whose death could cause an uprising.

‘I will not allow it.’

‘But Macrinus…’ Nona trails of and you frown.

Since she keeps from speaking, you ask, ‘Sister, what does Macrinus have to do with this?’

‘I am unsure.’ She remains silent for a long moment. ‘There is something I have to tell you, but I fear…’

‘If you fear for your safety, then keep your lips sealed, Nona,’ you insist. ‘I do not want to see you harmed anymore.’

She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them she speaks as assuredly as ever, ‘You should know this. I should tell you. I do not think Macrinus realizes that I figured this out. He believes me as stupid as his whores. But I puzzled the pieces together. I hear those conversations he thinks I do not notice. Sister, he has spies. Everywhere, and here too, in the palace. I believe he even has them in your chambers.’

A shiver runs through your body. In an attempt to keep your composure, you clench your jaw. It is little surprising, you must admit, but nevertheless terrifying.

‘In my chambers?’ you repeat slowly.

‘I believe he sees you as a threat, to the influence he wields through the emperors. Not only do you have Caracalla’s ear, but Geta’s too.’

‘Geta does not like me,’ you find yourself saying, despite the conversation you had last night, despite how he looked at you during breakfast.

‘Sister, you have become the bane of both emperors’ existence. You may not see it, but Rome does. And this infuriates my husband. That is why…’

‘Why he what?’ you insist.

‘Why he married me.’

Your blood runs cold. Of course you had your suspicions, but you silenced them. It was too uncomfortable to think about. But now your sister confronts you with the facts.

‘Nona, I am… sorry.’

‘Do not be!’ she raises her voice, but immediately turns to look around as if fearing someone may have heard. ‘Do not be. I refuse to let any man put a rift between us. I am strong, I can endure him.’

‘I will get you out of his household.’ You squeeze her hands strongly, but she only grins.

‘Macrinus is playing a long game, Thurina. If you want to overcome him, you have to play patiently as well.’

Softly you ask, ‘You would let me keep his net of spies intact?’

‘And feed it poison,’ Nona whispers.

You cup your sister’s face in your hands and make her a promise, ‘By summer, you will be back home, you hear me?’

And that is the moment Nona’s composure breaks. Spilling tears she wraps her arms around you, sobbing into the crook of your neck. You wrap your palla around the both of you, in an attempt to shelter you from the cold, and let her cry her fear and anger and sadness out. It is your fault she is in such distress, it is your fault she has been discarded by the emperor and left to be used and abused. If you had not been there, in the villa at Neapolis, Caracalla would not have become infatuated with you, neither would Geta have had anything to envy his brother for. Perhaps then Geta might have just married Nona, as her parents had hoped, then a love affair between her and Lucius Verus would have been too ridiculous to consider. Instead of preventing the tragedy, you have set it in motion.

‘Lets go inside, before you catch a cold,’ you whisper once Nona has stilled in your arms.

She gives a weak nod. When you reenter the grand hall where the Saturnalia feast has only derailed into outright debauchery, all evidence of Nona’s breakdown has been wiped away. She walks with her head held high, her tears dried, and her eyes filled with a gaze as cold as stone. When a slave comes to offer a cup of wine, you take one for her.

‘Drink up,’ you tell your sister.

She has barely accepted the cup or her husband is towering over the both of you. He bows deep.

‘Empress, you look as dashing as ever.’

‘Oppelius Macrinus, you neglect your wife,’ you berate him. ‘She has become so skinny.’

‘She insists on a sober diet, empress.’ He wraps his arm around Nona, pulling her closer to him.

Before you can retort, you are distracted by a cheerful, high-pitched scream. It is Caracalla, who has climbed atop the back of a remarkably tall and broad Praetorian. Apparently, the poor man is now the emperor’s stallion.

‘Sister.’ Startled you shoot a glance over your shoulder. Geta has called for you. ‘Come bless my dice!’

Geta sits not so far from you, on a low stool around an equally low table. Gathered around him are noble men, some of whom senators, all equally enthralled by the game unfolding between them. With a sigh you tell Macrinus and Nona, ‘When my sister and I left this hall, the festivities were perfectly acceptable. Now look at this: my brother-in-law is gambling.’

‘I fear you are the sobering factor, empress. Take you out of the equation, and well…’ Macrinus gestures to Caracalla, who has ordered his Praetorian-stead to charge forward — as if in battle.

You hum. ‘Take care of my sister, Macrinus. It is your duty as a husband.’

For now, there is nothing else you can do except leave her in his arms. As you approach Geta’s gambling table, the crowd parts to let you pass. Wine has already flowed richly, which has made some ladies of the court bold enough to look at you with a barely concealed sneer. You have spent enough time around ladies of the like to pinpoint the precise meaning of their dark glares: it is pitch black jealousy. If not over the elevation of your station from unimportant, unnoticeable widow to empress, then for how not one but two emperors strive for your attention and approval. These women must believe you greedy, they must think that you insist on both emperors’ affection, jeopardizing any other lady’s attempts to make herself betrothed to the emperor still unmarried. There is no way to convince them you would be satisfied with no one’s eyes on you, that you would gladly leave the emperors to them — if only it were so simple.

‘Thurina, you must blow on these dice.’ Geta raises his cupped hand to you.

There is a boyish boldness in his doe eyes which you have not before been witness to. Away is the inhibition he usual covers himself in when around you. Instead there is a playful smirk on his lips and a fervorous restlessness in his body. It must be the alcohol, or perhaps some other substance, which has set him loose. Yet, he looks at you so focused that you start to believe he may truly be sober, and his exhilaration may be caused by you alone.

Eying the four dice in his hand, you inquire, ‘Whatever for?’

'For luck, of course.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Geta, the Voluseni have not been known to be so lucky.’

He leans in and with slight playfulness he points out in rather soft tone of voice, ‘Yet the gods bestowed you as a wife to my brother.’

‘Do not be too quick to assume I am a blessing. I may yet turn out to be a curse.’

‘If you are a curse, then you are a beautiful one.’

How bold he has grown. And that while his brother, your husband, is only a small distance away. Not one prone to get ahead of yourself, you answer, ‘If you so insist.’

You blow on the dice. He laughs, well-pleased, and you find yourself relishing the sound. It astounds you that you quite like this side of him. This side which evaporates any doubt that he and Caracalla are indeed twins. Enthusiastically Geta throws the dice, and you chuckle when all four of them fall onto the same side. One.

‘Dogs,’ you say. ‘I told you, little luck to be found here.’

Scoffing, Geta adds four coins to the pot. ‘I should have asked you to bless Gaius’s dice.’

‘I will not let you scheme around by exploiting my bad luck.’

Your remark goes partly lost in the loud clamor behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder. Somehow, Caracalla has fallen from the Praetorian’s back, and although the emperor is laughing in good humor, he is also yelling for someone to whip the man — 'like the disobedient animal he is'. You exchange a look with a suddenly solemn Geta, an obvious plea from his side to interfere, and approach your husband.

‘Keep the whips guarded, my husband only speaks in jest.’

The slaves who were already hurrying around, come to a still.

Caracalla, annoyed to be hindered in his demands, begins, ‘I do n—’ But you interrupt him in a low voice, ‘So is that what you do instead of honoring your wife: climbing atop any tall, broad, handsome man within your reach?’

Caracalla shows you an abashed grin and closes the distance between you. ‘I would honor my wife, if she did not always escape from my grasp.’

‘You can grasp me now,’ you respond silently.

You have barely spoken the words or he has already grabbed your waist and pulled you close. The dozens of eyes scorch your skin and you feel yourself becoming ice cold with shame. It is not that you dislike Caracalla’s touch, but it is unbecoming to perform such intimacy where anyone may bare witness to it. But he is your husband, so you remain still when he presses his dry lips to your cheek.

‘You’re cold,’ Caracalla notes.

‘I was just outside.’

‘Let me warm you up.’

He leans in, his lips searching for yours, but in a reflex you lean back. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of your waist, and you hold your breath as you see sharp edges in his expression. While sometimes you can have the upper hand in this, this was not the moment to refuse him. In an attempt to soothe him, you whisper, ‘You know that I do not like how they look at me.’

And that settles it. Softness returns to his features and grinning amusedly he remarks all too loudly, ‘Then I’ll warm you up in the bedrooms.’

He intertwines his fingers with yours and pulls you away from the crowd. This time it is not you dragging a lethargic Caracalla through the halls of Palatine hill, but is it your husband as giddy as a boy running through the hallway as he drags you along with him.

‘You should have seen your face just now, mellitula!’ he clamors as you try not to trip over your own feet or the skirts of your stola. ‘You looked so adorable, all abashed and that. But you must know, surely, that either way all of those sycophants know that I will absolutely ravish you.’

Breathing heavily you retort, ‘Like you promised you would do on our wedding night? Which was, should I remind you, yesterday.’

Caracalla turns to you, walking backwards through the bedroom doors opened by a set of slaves, and he assures, ‘It was a calculated decision. The longer the wait, the sweeter the fruit.’

You snap your fingers in a command for all slaves to leave you. When Caracalla wraps his arms tightly around you once more and begins to kiss your throat, you understand that you are not so much in power anymore. The doors have barely been pulled shut behind you, or he is already fumbling with the silver fibulae keeping your stola in place. He is not so much kissing the sensitive skin of your throat, as licking it, biting it. With how he is writing against you, his hands wandering along the swell of your hips and breasts, you feel as if being attacked by some tiny yet violent beast.

‘Calla —’

He interrupts you by kissing your lips, hungrily and angrily. Away is the prior playfulness, and instead he forces his tongue into your mouth and pulls away your palla strongly. Panic swells inside of you and you place your hands against his torso, trying to push him off of you — but your resistance only annoys him. Wrapping his hands around your throat, softly yet imminently, he retreats just enough to say, ‘Wife, your duty is to submit.’

To your own reprise, your response is not to cower, neither to soothe. Instead, you grit your teeth and look at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Be careful what you say now, Caracalla.’

Snarling he tries once more to kiss you, but you evade the attempt and lean in until your teeth find his throat. You bite him until he whines and lets go of your throat. Quite enjoying the pathetic noises he makes, you sink lower, biting the sensitive skin there where his neck meets his shoulder. He takes hold your waist, clinging onto you, yet he laments, ‘No, no — I am your husband, it should be me —’

‘We both know you prefer this.’

You lick the imprint of your teeth in his skin, and then look up. His lips are trembling. A droplet of spit slips from the corner of his mouth. You wipe it away with your thumb and whisper, ‘I know I prefer this.’

And to your sick surprise this is the plain truth of it. As shameful as it is, you are enjoying this tremendously: toying with him, tormenting him ever so sweetly. It must be the desperate sounds he makes, or how he trembles under your touch. His sheer need for you cannot be hidden — and you relish the sensuality of it. While you guide him back to his ridiculously large bed he murmurs, ‘You will be the death of me.’

‘Don’t be dramatic.’

You push him onto the mattress, and waste little time in climbing atop of him, straddling his legs. He is breathing heavily, and you can see the goosebumps spreading over his skin. You allow his hands to wander, but only because you are taking liberties with his body as well.

‘Lets get these off of you,’ you tell him happily as you start peeling the luxurious fabrics off of him.

As you undo him of his clothes, he unlocks your fibulae and your stola glides off your shoulders, baring your breasts. You pretend not to be bothered, or even notice — but you do not miss how he licks his lips at the sight of your tits, full and sore. He tries to prep himself up on his elbows, whispering your name, but you push him back with two hands on his chest and chastise him, ‘No. You lie still now. Remember your place.’

‘I am emperor!’

‘And I am empress,’ you remind him as you set to untying his tunica — the last piece of clothing covering him. ‘You made me one.’

He lifts his hips. Anything to get some friction against his achingly hard cock. You tremble ever so slightly at the feeling of his thick erection against your thighs, and he grins.

Pleased with himself to have broken your composure if only for a moment he remarks, ‘I should have made you my whore instead.’

‘Oh, please. We both know I am both your whore and your empress. Just as you are my emperor, and my sweet, good boy. Aren’t you?’

He nods shyly. ‘Well then, raise your arms, I need to get rid of this.’

Ever eager to fulfill your wishes, he does as you say, and you finally get rid of the insolent piece of clothing. Your husband lays all bare underneath you. There is no need to hurry this, so you take your time to inspect his body. Drawing lazy circles with you finger over his fuzzy chest, you appreciate the acne scars on his skin, count the moles on his arms, poke into the softness of his belly, and finally trace a line over his erection, laying heavily and throbbing and flushed against his abdomen. Barely sparing any attention to it, you remark at the soft hair on his thighs, ‘You have hair all over.’

‘It hurts to get rid of it.’

‘Oh, husband —’ You tease the slit of his cock, with your index finger. A droplet of precum wets the pad of the digit. ‘— I quite like it.’

‘You do?’

You lean back as you wrap your hand around his shaft, clenching around it tightly. He groans ever so slightly, but he cannot help how his hips buck.

‘Yes. You’re so soft all over.’

His chest rises and falls in a heavy rhythm, and his parted lips move for a moment without sound coming out. Finally he whimpers, ‘Mellitula, my moon, my — my — Thurina, please, it hurts.’

‘Hurts? Where does it hurt?’

‘M-my cock!’

‘Oh.’

He blinks rapidly. ‘Why do you tease me so, wife?’

‘I do not tease,’ you lie.

‘You do! You tease, and toy, and — and — oh gods.’

The curse is a respond to how you let a thick droplet of spit spill over your lips, so that it falls with a long string from your mouth onto his cock. Meeting his gaze, you set to stroking his cock, getting it all wet with your saliva. There is something about the squishy wetness of your touch that makes you all soft inside. You smile as Caracalla arches his back, and tries to meet your movements. You have barely done anything and he’s already given up on any attempt to control his reactions, to contain himself. How easy it is to unravel him. You take to jerking him off in a steady, yet slow rhythm, varying the pressure as you see fit. The weight of him in the palm of your hand exhilarates you. How heavy he is; and to think he is all hard and hot and red because of you.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he curses in a rough voice. ‘Gods, that’s it… that’s…’ He raises his hips again and you come to a stop. With a jolt he preps himself up, frowning at you in confusion. ‘Why did you stop?’

‘You got ahead of yourself,’ you shrug.

‘I got… By Venus, Thurina!’

How exasperated he sounds. You hum questioningly, lazily weighing his heavy sack in your free hand. He lets out a choked sound and steadies himself on the palms of his hands.

‘You cannot just do that,’ he complains

‘Cannot do what?’

‘Gods, you are impossible! Mellitula, I am aching over here. You cannot just…’ You begin pumping his cock once more and he sighs in deep relief. ‘Gods, please, just keep on doing that. Fuck, fuck — if you keep on kneading my balls like that, I will come in no time.’

You keep on diligently stroking his shaft, every so often teasing his tip with your thumb, and palming his balls.

‘Do you perhaps,’ you lean in to whisper in his ear, ‘want me to suck them?’

In a desperate plea, he asserts, ‘Of course I do!’

‘Lie back then.’

He does as he is told and you settle on your belly onto the mattress. As you stroke his cock slowly, you stick out your tongue and slowly swirl the tip over his leaking slit. You relish the sounds he makes as you then for a moment take his head into your mouth and suck on it, then lick leisurely along a vein sticking out from his shaft, and then finally wrapping your lips around his heavy sack.

‘Venus have mercy,’ he whines as you try to suck as much of him into your mouth.

All self-control you until now managed to preserve, seems to evaporate at the sensation of his sack against your lips. Still stroking him insistently, you lick, kiss and suck on his balls until he is a whiny, trembling mess under your touch. You feel quite content like this. The sensation leaves you hot, and trembling, and most of all — moist. The wetness of your desire is starting to stick between your thighs even if you try so hard not to act on it. Yet, your little past time is not to last for long: just as Caracalla is making the sweetest, most depraved sounds, he tugs you away from him by the neck.

‘Calla!’ You are almost shocked at how bothered you sound, but Caracalla has no energy in his body left to even notice.

‘Wife — gods be good — wife, you should not — this is not the time to have me spill all my seed into your mouth.’

You cannot help it: messing with him is just too amusing. Tilting your head, you ask, ‘Why not?’

This question, so simple yet so bold, makes him snap. He sits up, wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you farther onto the bed. You struggle, try to writhe free from his grip.

As he tries to bend you to his will, he grumbles, ‘Because, wife, my seed belongs inside your cunt. And you know that, you little minx, you know —’ He throws you onto your back on the mattress and pulls the fabric of your stola off of you. ‘— you know that I intend to make you swollen and heavy with child. My child!’

‘Ah, yes, the emperor wants an heir,’ you sing-song as he digs his fingers into the supple flesh of your thighs.

Even as you play so coy, you cannot keep from shivering at the intimate touch. His hands are warm and soft — his touch is all you need to become mellow.

‘The emperor,’ he says slowly as he pushes apart your legs, ‘wants to fill your cunt with his cock.’

‘I know. You’ve been boasting about it for — for months.’ The last few syllables are a mere whisper, for he traces his fingertips over the wetness between your legs.

‘Look who is completely soaked,’ he murmurs as dips his fingers between your soft folds. ‘And all quiet all of a sudden.’

With parted lips you gaze up at him as he crawls atop of you. His mouth hovers over yours. He sets to massaging your sensitive clit with the pad of his thumb. You sink into his touch. Your hands reach for his neck, to pull him closer.

‘There you go, mellitula.’ His words fan against your lips. ‘Be good for your husband.’

You only manage to nod, too overwhelmed by the warm pleasure rushing through you. You can feel your leaking hole clenching around nothing, as Caracalla insists on spoiling your throbbing clit only. At your whines, Caracalla only grins.

‘What’s the matter?’ He even dares to slow the delectable touches onto your clit.

‘You know.’

‘I have no idea.’ He presses his moist mouth onto your cheek, softly, briefly. ‘Does this not please you, wife?’

You nod, then shake your head. ‘I need you inside me.’

‘Like this?’

And he kisses you, wet and messily, with too much tongue and teeth clashing. When he pulls back, you are breathless, your tummy all fuzzy with pleasure and need.

‘My sweet boy, you know very well… Gods, husband, just fuck me with your fingers.’

He chuckles. ‘How crass.’

‘I am in no mood for decorum,’ you grumble annoyed, and you push him onto his back.

He looks at up at you as you straddle him. His blue eyes are all wide and shiny with liquid desire. You take hold of his hand and place it once more between your legs. This time, he wordlessly follows your instruction, dipping not one but two fingers inside your wet hole. Your legs buckle and you barely manage to remain upright on your knees. Once more pressing the pad of his thumb against your clitoris, rubbing it in clumsy circles, he sets to pumping his fingers into you. You let your head hang, supporting yourself on his chest as you allow yourself to drown into the pleasure. Quickly you find yourself meeting his movements. He is breathing almost as hard as you are, at the sight of you, fucking yourself on his fingers.

‘Gods, you look…’ He can barely find any words. ‘Fuck, your tits… just begging to be…’

He reaches for your breasts with his free hand. He weighs each in his palm, before he rolls a nipple between his finger, tugging at it until a droplet of milk spills.

‘That’s just so fucking hot,’ he groans almost angrily.

Meanwhile he slips a third finger into you, making your eyelids flutter. All the sensations pooling in your belly are making you dizzy with need. Between your legs is a sticky, wet mess. You do not think you’ve ever been this soaked before. He does not stop toying with your poor nipple, even as the milk drips down your breast, over your tummy, to your thighs. He sets to pumping his fingers into you faster, more vehemently. The squelching wet sounds are simply depraved. You tremble and almost fall atop of him.

‘My sweet boy,’ you whimper.

‘Are… are you coming?’

Enthusiastically he leans up, mouth finding your nipple. You fall atop of him, and in a clumsy mess of movements he lays you onto your back. His fingers only leave you for a moment, before slipping inside your needy cunt once more. With an contented sigh his lips finally meet your leaking nipple and he sucks on it, hungry for all you have to offer. His fingertips hit a sensitive spot inside of you, making you whine and arch your back. Noting your reaction, Caracalla sets to meeting the spot again and again, all while he his thumb dutifully toys with your clit.

‘Mellitula, won’t you come for me?’ He lips your nipple with the flat of his tongue. ‘Am I not your good boy?’

Eyes rolling back, your body responds to his sweet words, his delectable touch, by trembling and spasming.

‘Venus be merciful,’ you whimper as your orgasm rolls through you in hot waves.

Caracalla, ever greedy as he is, does not halt his movements. He pumps his finger into your clenching hole, rubs your overstimulated clit, and drinks from your tit until you have practically fought him off of you. But then he only takes hold of your wrists and pins them down.

‘Alright then,’ he admits, ‘I relent. But you must lie down now, legs spread, and take your husband’s cock.’

You have barely recovered from your orgasm, but you have no choice but to nod. He lets go off your wrists, and as he pumps his angrily hard cock a few times, you slide the palms of your hands over his fuzzy chest. There is a tension in his muscles, you realize, and a nervousness in his heavy breathing.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’

‘N-nothing!’ he insists all too harshly.

You hush him and prep yourself up on your hand. Cupping the back of his neck, you pull his face close to yours. In an attempt to soothe him, you kiss him softly. It seems to work only a bit, for he sighs, yet the way he rubs his length through your folds can only be described as wantonly. He urges you once more onto your back, but this time his lips do not leave your for a moment. When he presses his tip against your entrance, you automatically tense, but he leaves a trail of kisses so sweet all over your face, your find yourself relaxing once more. He cups your face in his hand, and eyes meeting, he starts pushing into you. Your mouth falls open in revelry, although he stills when just the tip is inside of you.

‘Calla,’ you whine as he pushes further in, until finally he has sheeted himself into you completely.

You have never felt like this before: so full and filled up. It makes you warm and tangly and sticky with an utmost delectable sensation. For a moment he does not move. He just pants into your face, eyes half shut.

Thurina,’ he whispers, ‘Thurina, my wife, I am going to —’ He pulls back a bit and bucks back into you clumsily. ‘I am going to fuck you so good, I promise.’

Before you can tease him with how pathetic he sounds, he begins to rut with such force you begin to squirm in an effort to escape him just a bit. But he does not let you, instead he clings onto your waist tightly. There is no rhythm or technique to how he pumps his cock in and out of you, instead it’s all desperate abandon, as are the depraved sounds he makes. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, but instead of kissing the skin softly, he bites down hard.

‘Caracalla,’ you screech, but he does not relent, does not even give you a moment of reprieve.

He fucks you like a hungry animal. And although you feel used and abused, you cannot deny that each of his wild thrusts sends a jolt of pleasure through your sore body. The curls of his pubic hair rub against your throbbing clit, adding another dizzying sensation to the overwhelming mix. He bites you all over, sometimes more soft, other times so deep that you fear he will draw blood. While one hand slips between your bodies, to toy with your clit, his other kneads your breast roughly.

‘You take me so well,’ he groans against your shoulder, before biting down once more. ‘Fuck, the sounds you make. My wife, my wife, you make my cock feel so good.’

He sits up suddenly, wrapping both hands around your waist, and sets to fuck into you in a steady, hard rhythm. His balls clap against your skin, another depraved sound added to the squelching of his cock pushing into you. Each thrusts makes your body shake and shiver, and whatever thought may still have roamed in your mind, dissipates. You only feel — his cock pumping into your leaking hole, his fuzzy thighs rubbing against yours, his fingers digging into your waist, and all the warm pleasure running through your veins. Only latently you are aware of the moans and whines and pleas slipping from your lips.

‘My pretty wife, pretty mellitula, are you feeling good?’

You barely manage a pathetic yes.

‘Am I your good boy?’

‘My sweet boy,’ you whimper. ‘Your cock feels so good.’

He trembles and there goes his ability to fuck you so steadily. He practically falls atop on you, thrusting into you clumsily as his lips seek your breasts. He grows annoyed and bothered as he tries and fails to find a suitable position in which he can both fuck you and suck from your tit. When he finally manages to, he almost melts into you — and you into him.

‘There you go,’ you whisper, nursing him with your milk.

In a haze you let a hand slip between you and set to rubbing your clit yourself — it is clear your husband is too preoccupied to serve you like this. In this meeting of your bodies — his cock slipping in and out of you, his lips wrapped around your leaking nipple — the tension in your tummy tightens and tightens. When he replaces one nipple for the other, still considerate enough to rub the neglected nub with his fingers, you suddenly find yourself trembling and writhing underneath him in another warm pool of pleasure.

‘Calla, feels… so good,’ you moan.

‘Gods, did you just come?’ he whines and looking up at you in awe, he pumps himself into you more vehemently.

You shake your head desperately, tears spilling from your eyes from overstimulation.

‘Too much, too much!’

‘Just a m-moment. Oh gods, oh gods, you feel so good when you come on my cock,’ he rambles as you become almost nauseous due to the overflowing sensations. ‘So wet and warm and — I’m gonna fill you up. I’m gonna give you my seed, and make your belly swell and you’ll look so pretty with my child inside of you, so pretty and round and — Fuck!’

He jolts to a still and you breath out in relieve as he sinks into your body, seed spilling inside your abused cunt. For a moment both of you just lie there, as your breaths steady and heartbeats slow. After a while he sits up on his knees and slowly pulls out from you. In a reflex you try to close your legs, but he pushes them apart. Lips parted he looks at your used hole. You can only imagine how filthy you are now, with his milky white seed inside of you.

‘That’s the prettiest sight I ever saw,’ he murmurs and then, with a displeased frown he adds, ‘It’s leaking from you. Cannot have that.’

And he slips two fingers back into your hole, no mind how sore you feel, no mind how tired out you are.

‘Calla, please, you have worn me out.’

‘It’s alright,’ he cooes as he pushes his cum back inside of your cunt.

‘Just lie back, you do not have to do anything. I only have to…’

He does not bother to finish the sentence, instead pleased enough with wrapping his lips around your clit. As he sets to fucking his fingers inside your cunt, dripping with his seed, and licking your abused clit, you realize this is going to be a long night.

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

A/N: Sorry that I am so late with this update, friends! And I fear for the upcoming weeks updates will be quite irregular. Without delving too deep into it, lets just say I find myself suddenly fostering a toddler so that naturally takes up a lot of time I normally spend writing. I want to emphasize that I will still be working on this fic, but just slower. Thank you for staying along for the ride ❤️

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