justbreath

[goborn2win]

Кто-то сделал сайт губозакаточной машинки так, будто это реальный гаджет

У этой штуки:

— название модели;

— коробка;

— сменные валики;

— комплектация;

— FAQ;

— отзывы пользователей;

— USB-C;

— встроенный аудиомодуль;

— и даже собственный трек «Закатай», который, по легенде, усиливает эффект

https://pikabu.ru/story/ktoto_sdelal_sayt_gubozakatochnoy_mashinki_tak_budto_yeto_realnyiy_gadzhet_13816874

[goborn2win]

Hi! I wanted to share with you information about this service Musconv — it allows you to import and export playlists between many different sites, automatically!

[dimakulikov]

Песни со смыслом

Моя музыка — это отражение моих мыслей, чувств и переживаний. Я создаю песни со смыслом, которые способны затронуть самые глубины души каждого слушателя, вызвать сильные эмоции и помочь задуматься о значимых вещах в жизни.

Каждая композиция — это маленькая частичка моего внутреннего мира, полная глубоких философских размышлений о смысле нашего существования. Для меня крайне важно, чтобы мои душевые песни становились больше, чем просто фоном, а служили настоящей причиной для понимания своих настоящих желаний, стремлений и ценностей.

Если вас волнуют вопросы любви, дружбы, личного самоопределения, то мои треки будут рядом с вами в вашем пути поиска ответов. Главная цель моей музыки — показать каждому человеку, что он не одинок в своих исканиях и тревогах, что жизнь наполнена огромным значением и красотой.

Через музыку я выражаю то, что порой трудно передать словами, и искренне рад, что мои песни находят отклик в сердцах множества людей.

[goborn2win]

Does anyone listen to songs in Russian? This guy writes songs with meaning! I liked it.

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (final)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon

word count: ~4k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV chapter V

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Claudia twirled before her, showing off, stretching out her slender wrists adorned with expensive bracelets.

"If I had known Livia would send us such gifts, I wouldn’t have cried so much when they took her from us," she spun once more and, laughing, sat beside Cassandra, wrapping her arms around her, pressing her forehead against her shoulder. "I know you’re sad… About Father, about me, and… about your husband. But please, you’re the last person I have left to talk to! Don’t be so grim! It’s been over a year—you don’t have to wear mourning anymore! You’re young, beautiful…"

"Enough," Cassandra cut her off, her voice tired, her thoughts even darker.

A year had passed. A year since she became a widow. A year since her life was shattered, destroyed. It was true—she no longer had to wear mourning for her husband, and she could even remarry, if not for the stigma of a traitor's widow, the stain of an adulteress, and if not for the scars left on her skin, pale and inescapable.

Claudia, one of her younger sisters, had never seen the marks. Cassandra hid them, too ashamed to speak of what had happened in the imperial palace. How shocked Claudia had been when she learned that Cassandra—the luckiest among them, married, happy—was returning home in disgrace, back under their father’s roof.

Tiberius’ family had not accepted her. And she herself had no desire to live in a home filled with hatred.

But the girl who returned was not the same quiet, dreamy Cassandra who had left. What came back was only a shadow, an empty shell—pale, hollow-eyed, covered in wounds and bruises, with her hair cut short. Her father had known what had happened but had been powerless to change anything. Then, three months later, he died. His old heart couldn’t take it. And Cassandra blamed herself for that, too.

Without a man in the house, she had been doomed. But Livia, the youngest of the three sisters, had spent the last seven years training in the Temple of Vesta, and with that came privileges—privileges that saved Cassandra and Claudia from a fate worse than death: being handed over to some stranger.

Normally, the fate of widows and orphans—those who had lost their fathers but had not yet married—was decided by the Senate, sometimes even by the Emperor himself. Just the thought of it sent phantom pain burning through the place where he had carved his name into her skin. Cassandra’s fingers twitched, running through her short hair, tucking the strands behind her ears. He had cut those, too, to make sure no one would dare look at her, as if that had ever been possible.

"I’m begging you!" Claudia knelt in front of her, gripping her hands tightly. "Just one evening! My wedding, Cassandra! Rome is not a trap!"

Cassandra exhaled, pained, unwilling to listen to her sister’s pleading. She should be happy for her, and yet all she felt was fear and unease. She had not set foot in Rome for a year. The quiet, forgotten province suited her. She no longer wanted to see the world—her past had killed all curiosity in her. Everything had been peaceful… until history started repeating itself.

After the conspiracy of General Acacius and several senators was uncovered, a great purge followed. The ranks of Rome’s elite were drastically thinned. The executions went on day after day, and the Praetorians crushed rebellion after rebellion. The discontent had been widespread—many had loved the general—but steel was the best argument an emperor could make. And when the executions spread beyond the nobility, the people fell silent.

That was when Appius entered their lives—or rather, Claudia’s life. A newly appointed senator, he had taken the seat of one of the traitors.

The first formal meeting had sealed everything. He was too young for the Senate, but he had been utterly captivated by Claudia’s charm, her brightness. Cassandra could only watch in horror as history repeated itself… though there was one difference. They loved each other.

"Livia already refused me! At least don’t refuse me, too!" Claudia’s tearful pleas continued. "It’ll just be his family!"

Cassandra couldn’t bear to see her like this. She agreed.

If just one of her sisters had been with her at the imperial court, maybe—just maybe—things would have been different. Wouldn’t they?

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Rome no longer seemed beautiful to her.

The further they traveled, the heavier the weight in her chest became. It was only when they passed the Colosseum that she could breathe a little easier.

But just as her anxiety began to subside, it flared up again. The villa of Appius’s family wasn’t just large and beautiful—it was enormous. Green branches, golden and red ribbons adorned the already magnificent residence, proudly declaring where the groom lived.

Claudia was quickly pulled from her arms by the firm hands of the wedding matrona, who was to prepare the bride. Cassandra simply followed the flock of women, obedient and silent. The wedding had not yet begun, but the villa was already filled with guests.

It reminded her of her first time stepping into Senator Thraex’s home. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pulled her dark brown cloak tighter around her, telling herself that everyone who had once known her was probably dead by now.

"Ah, Cassandra! What a surprise!"

Appius caught her in a warm embrace, as if he truly was delighted to see her.

As custom dictated, the groom wore only a simple white toga and a pair of bracelets. His sharp blue eyes swept over her, like a man surveying goods at a market.

For the first time in a long while, she was not wearing black—the color that marked her as a widow. She didn’t look so bad, she told herself, if not for the short hair, barely reaching her chin.

"Appius, what a wonderful reception! So many guests!" She lied, feigning admiration for the sheer number of extravagantly dressed people in the vast, opulent hall.

Claudia had assured her it would only be the groom’s family. But surely not all these people were his relatives.

"Oh, thank you!" His voice was just as honeyed, though his sharp gaze noted her unease. "The rest of the guests will arrive later, for the ceremony itself. After all, my position now requires a little less modesty than before, wouldn’t you say?" He bowed to her with mock politeness and disappeared into the crowd.

The guests didn’t interest her. Neither did the villa, nor the wine, nor the food.

Cassandra retreated to the farthest corner, doing everything she could to remain unseen.

As the halls grew more crowded, the chatter louder, and the evening sky darkened, Claudia finally appeared.

The ceremony began.

Cassandra stepped closer. She saw her smiling sister, her head covered with a delicate orange veil. The same vows, the same rings she herself had once exchanged with her husband. It felt like a lifetime ago, though not even two years had passed.

"It can’t be!" A woman’s hushed, excited whisper sounded close by.

"I told you! Appius didn’t become a senator just like that! And he’s been friends with the emperors for a long time," replied another muffled voice.

Cassandra froze. Her sister’s face blurred, and the ceremony’s noise faded away, leaving only the quiet murmuring of two women she didn’t know. The happiest moment she had experienced in years was once again overshadowed. And once again, he was the reason.

The ritual continued, the lovers exchanged their vows, but Cassandra was entranced by the conversation she should never have overheard.

"Friendship, ha!" A quiet, eloquent giggle made her twist her lips. Could it be that her sister’s husband… "But who would refuse the emperor?"

"You’re lying! That can’t be!"

"It’s the truth!" More quiet giggling. "I saw him once. Oh, it was a sight! He waved to us, and I swear, I was ready to leave my husband forever just for one night with him! That deep blue cloak embroidered in gold, the golden cuirass with the sun shining in the center—"

"Which emperor?"

"Caracalla. They say he’s cruel and insane, but we all know those vile tongues." The voices grew even quieter.

"I heard he’s ill…"

Cassandra stopped listening. She didn’t want to drown in memories any further.

For a brief moment, she felt free, light. Her sister, now a wife, embraced her, pressing warm kisses to her cheeks, flushed and happy. Even Appius hugged her—more modestly, of course—but Cassandra forced herself not to dwell on it or on the conversation she had overheard.

Her sister was happy. And so, for her sake, was Cassandra.

Then came laughter, music, and wine. As the bride’s sister, she couldn’t avoid attention for long. Guests pulled her into idle conversations, politely avoiding questions about her husband. A few young men even tried to steer the talk into something indecent, but she brushed them off.

"What’s the matter, my dear lady? Has your heart already been claimed by someone?" He was charming and young, but just the thought of closeness with a man filled her with dread.

But dread awaited her ahead. The evening picked up pace, more and more wine loosened tongues and hands, and she once again felt nervous.

Something was wrong.

She blushed from a sudden wave of emotion, then turned pale with fear, hearing a piercing animalistic screech, high and loud. The fear was sharp, painful, as though her past had caught up with her once again. Conversations swirled around her, but she only clutched the silver cup in her hand, desperately trying not to panic.

They were here.

The play of light and shadow, the darkness of evening, and the flickering torchlight deceived the guests, but she saw him. He was just as he appeared in her nightmares.

His delicate features, a high forehead framed by unruly red curls, and beneath pale brows, those mocking blue eyes gleamed.

Why was she looking at him? Why was she staring?

Yet she couldn’t stop, her gaze drifting lower—to those defined red lips, the soft curve of his chin and neck… He hadn’t changed a bit, except perhaps for the feverish flush that now colored his face even more vividly.

A shadow shifted, and torchlight illuminated his brother’s face—pale, tight-lipped, dark eyes sharp, and furrowed brows.

The emperors were sober. And completely joyless.

Though Caracalla smiled.

He always smiled. She remembered that well—smiled even in rage.

Appius quickly made his way to the noble guests, gracefully gesturing for everyone to continue the celebration, all while taking turns kissing the emperors’ hands.

Cassandra cast a desperate glance at her sister, seated among the women. But Claudia didn’t notice—too thrilled by the presence of Rome’s rulers.

Yet the air in the room had changed.

She saw the way the lutenist’s hands trembled, how he licked his suddenly dry lips, terrified of plucking the wrong string. Gossip or not, many still believed in the emperors’ cruelty. The proof hung in the streets—rebels crucified and tortured, all those who dared rise against the Caesars.

Voices lowered. Laughter grew restrained.

After all, everyone only had one head.

"Hail the Caesars!" the crowd roared, and finally, smiles spread across the emperors’ faces.

Slaves swiftly cleared space in the grand hall. The young rulers took the place meant for the newlyweds, but it seemed no one dared object.

Appius, forgetting his young wife entirely, hovered around the emperors like a fawning servant, laughing and pouring wine into their goblets as if he himself were a slave.

Like in a dream, Cassandra watched them from the shadows, catching every gesture, every lazy movement of their hands. Caracalla was bored, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip, still sober and thus irritable. Geta, with a forced smile, nodded at Appius, clearly sharing his brother’s mood.

Her heart pounded with fear and dread when the young senator waved Claudia over, clearly eager to present her to the emperors. Caracalla sat up straighter, tilting his head to appraise Appius’s young wife. Oh, Cassandra knew that look—evaluating, languid, always bored and never passing up a chance for amusement. Geta mirrored his brother, wiping his chin as he studied Claudia. There was no honor in their gazes, only cold, slippery intent, but her sister didn’t see it—just as Cassandra herself hadn’t seen it once upon a time.

Appius held Claudia by the fingertips, spinning her in a circle as she laughed, clearly more intent on showing off than entertaining his bride. Caracalla leaned forward with a smirk, his pale, delicate hand, adorned with gold and gems, reaching out toward her sister. Without thinking, Cassandra stepped forward in fear for Claudia.

"Claudia!" she called out before she even realized what she had done.

Her fragile shield of shadow fell away as she emerged into the light. Appius and Claudia stared at her, puzzled, but they weren’t the ones who mattered. Along with them, those feverish blue eyes fixed on her. Her legs weakened, her palms grew slick with sweat, but it was too late—she was caught again.

"Oh, Cassandra, come here!" her sister called. Appius clearly disapproved but couldn’t object.

On unsteady legs, she still managed to approach them, feeling the crowd's eyes on her. And their eyes. God, she hated them both with equal ferocity! The fact that Geta tormented her less didn’t lessen his guilt—after all, it was with his casual approval that Caracalla had started this whole twisted game.

Appius introduced her, and she bowed her head in feigned reverence. When she looked up, Geta’s unblinking gaze met hers—he recognized her, how could he not, after all he’d witnessed? Her scar throbbed painfully, and she averted her eyes, unable to withstand the oppressive blackness of his stare. But it was much harder to meet Caracalla’s gaze… though, to her surprise, he clearly didn’t remember her. Still, relief didn’t come. In his eyes, she saw curiosity, a spark, excitement! He feverishly licked his lips, his red mouth curling into a smile, his hand tightening around his cup. Gods, had they truly cursed her, binding him to her, sending him to torment her again and again? He didn’t even recognize her, and yet he was intrigued!

Then Emperor Geta leaned toward his brother, whispering something in his ear, and Cassandra realized she was doomed. Now, recognition appeared on Caracalla’s face, and he burst out laughing like a child, patting his brother on the shoulder as if he’d just made a brilliant joke.

"Little bird?" His voice was hoarse, deceptively soft, as if they were old friends.

Claudia looked at her, confused, but Cassandra couldn’t answer. Worse still, her sister was witnessing this entire humiliating spectacle.

"My emperor," she replied quietly.

"It really is you!" He scanned her from head to toe, his mouth slightly open, never ceasing to smile, his obsessive gaze drinking in her face.

"So, this is your sister?" She nodded. "And where’s your husband?"

Her breath caught, and Appius and Claudia froze beside her. Even Emperor Geta stared at his brother, one eyebrow raised in evident confusion. It took every ounce of her strength not to break down in tears right then and there. Instead, she exhaled shakily and answered, "Dead. You killed him, Caesar."

The delight on Caracalla’s face was a mockery. He didn’t touch her, but she felt as if he’d slapped her across the face.

"Did I? Really?" He leaned back, spreading his legs, clearly pleased with himself. "So, you’re a widow now? What wonderful news!"

Was he taunting her, or was he truly so sick? She couldn’t tell, but judging by Geta’s heavy gaze, he was concerned.

"Come here, little bird," he said, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, and she obeyed, stepping closer. "I’ve never had a widow before," he purred, trailing his hand along her thigh, still sitting, lazily, almost weightlessly, touching the thick fabric of her clothes with his fingertips. Yet, she felt the long-forgotten heat of his touch. He himself, like his hair—blood, fire.

Geta nodded to Appius, who took Claudia’s hand and led her away. Cassandra wanted to protest, to reach for her sister, to beg for rescue, but instead, she caught only a worried, strangely hurt look from Claudia—a look that cut her heart deeper than all the emperor’s cruelties.

"You vanished, my dear," Caesar said, yanking her hand down and forcing her to sit beside him, at his feet, like some nameless slave. Long-forgotten humiliation flushed her neck and cheeks red, especially as the guests still stole glances their way. "I missed you so much," he whispered in a singsong tone, his ring-laden fingers burying themselves in her short hair, stroking it. "I liked your hair," he said, his hot hand sliding lower, down her neck, then beneath the fabric, nearly brushing her chest. But it wasn’t lust that drove the young emperor—Cassandra felt his tender fingers trace the pale outline of her scar, following the path of the blade that had left it there.

"Brother, not here," Geta warned, clearly uneasy. "Have you forgotten the uprisings the Praetorians worked so hard to crush? Leave her be—you’ve already taken enough from her, so…"

"And I’ll take her again!" A grimace of rage twisted Caracalla’s powdered, delicate face. He released her, nervously twisting the rings on his fingers. "Don’t lecture me—you, of all people, should know that, brother."

"I’m just asking you not to do this in public!" Geta relented. "This is a wedding…"

"If I want, our dear Appius will take her place with a snap of my fingers," Caracalla hissed, clearly displeased by his brother’s words. "Or, if I desire, his little wife will do."

She looked up at him in horror, silently begging him not to.

Geta merely clicked his tongue and turned away, taking a sip from his goblet. Caracalla, however, shifted from rage to tenderness, gazing down at her once more, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, her lips.

"Missed me?" A soft, playful slap to her cheek made her close her eyes. "I know you did, little bird. I imagine you often thought about our little meetings." He paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I don’t remember our sweet little dates all that well, but no one can stop us from repeating them, hmm?"

Angry tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall—she kept fighting to hold herself together. Her husband was dead, her father was dead, and her sisters… her sisters were relatively safe.

"You can’t treat me like this," she said, hardly believing the words had left her mouth.

Caracalla laughed, his laughter echoing through the hall, but the nervous twitch of his mouth betrayed that he was far from amused.

"Can’t I?" he taunted, his fingers digging into her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You’re a widow and an orphan! Who but the father of Rome would open his arms to you and offer you shelter?" But his touch brought only pain, and the look in his darkened eyes promised suffering.

Then his grip softened, his hand stroking her cheek tenderly, as if he truly meant to comfort her. But instead, Caracalla leaned in, his hot breath laced with the sweet scent of oils and powder, and whispered heatedly in her ear, "Now I am your husband, your brother, your father, understand? You are mine." His lips nearly brushed her temple. "Now you are my property, and I will do with you as I please, my dear."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Caracalla, sealing his words, kissed her forehead in a fatherly gesture before pulling back.

The music played on, life buzzed outside, but for her, everything had stopped right there. Caracalla, pleased with the impression he’d made, like a street magician, opened a particularly large ring on his index finger.

Through a veil of tears, Cassandra saw the Emperor bring the ring to his nose, inhaling the powder that filled the hollow space of the ornament.

"What do you like most about me?" he asked, still mocking. Geta grimaced, clearly starting to get irritated.

She wanted to say she hated him, that she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the fear for her sister’s fate was overwhelming, so she bowed her head and whispered quietly, "Generosity, my Caesar."

"Great answer!" He snapped his fingers and turned to his brother. "Hear that? I’m generous!"

"Of course she’ll say whatever you want," Geta’s displeasure was plain to see. The way the young emperor curled his lips, furrowed his brow, and tapped his fingers—all of it spoke of a foul mood.

Could Caracalla’s behavior truly anger him so much? The brothers quarreled often, but they always seemed a united front—so what had changed? Why was Geta looking at his brother with such tight-lipped disdain? Then his gaze shifted to her, and Cassandra understood. He hated her. The mere fact that she had reappeared in their lives and captured Caracalla’s attention infuriated him.

"And since I am generous," Caracalla continued grandly, ignoring his brother’s words, "I will be generous to you." The emperor extended his hand to her, as if for a kiss, but the ring was still open, and she understood exactly what he wanted her to do.

Cassandra pressed her lips shut, turning her head away, and the smile vanished from Caracalla’s face. Emperor Geta, on the other hand, leaned over his brother’s palm, inhaled the powder, and quickly wiped his nose. Now two pairs of eyes bored into her, waiting for her to submit.

"Who are you hurting more?" Geta said, licking his lips and leaning back, far more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. "You’ve been told countless times, but you’re still stubborn as a mule—or are you just an idiot? A brainless, obstinate wench whom, by some twist of fate, my brother lusts after? Huh?"

Caracalla hated disobedience and had no patience for coaxing, so he seized her jaw, pressing painfully until she opened her mouth and looked up at him. His eyes had darkened, and in the halo of red paint and the dim torchlight, they looked utterly mad.

He released her face for a moment, but only to scoop a handful of powder from the ring and shove it into her mouth. Cassandra couldn’t withstand the force and obediently opened her mouth, fearing he’d dislocate her jaw.

Suppressing the urge to bite him, she waited for the humiliation to end, but Caracalla’s breathing grew heavier, and he continued to force her to lick the bitter powder from his delicate fingers. In the end, he always got his way, no matter how much she resisted.

Finally, he stopped tormenting her mouth, wiping his wet fingers on her cheek and leaning back, satisfied, glancing at his brother with a wide grin that revealed a golden tooth.

She turned away again, hoping no one had seen. Fortunately, her sister was speaking with her husband, but there was one witness to her shame. The young man who had flirted with her earlier was staring right at them, and the confusion and disgust on his face were yet another invisible slap.

Caracalla sees him too, and it excites him, turns him on. She feels her head start to spin, her eyelids grow heavy, as the emperor presses her head against his leg, as if she’s one of his many slaves, showing everyone who she belongs to now.

"Who’s that, little bird?" His tone promised nothing good.

"I don’t know him, Caesar," she replied, her voice trembling, clenching her fists tightly, trying to think clearly.

"Lie to me, and I won’t be kind," he said, his fingers in her hair tightening, pulling, causing pain.

"It’s the truth! We spoke today, nothing more, he’s just…"

"Do you want him? Shall I bring you his head? It’d make a fine wedding gift, don’t you think?"

She couldn’t think. Tears blurred her vision, and her thoughts tangled further. She saw Caracalla’s pupils dilate, his gaze growing heavy, languid, his breathing quickening—surely, she looked the same, drugged and dazed. A wedding gift? What was he talking about?

"Bedding ceremony!" Caracalla drawled in a sing-song voice, rising and immediately stumbling, grabbing his brother’s shoulder.

The guests looked at him in confusion, as did the newlyweds.

"But, Emperor, it’s still early…" one of the high-ranking guests began obsequiously.

Caracalla merely snorted and extended his hand to her. And then it hit her. This was their bedding ceremony. He was playing out his own perverse version of a wedding, twisting everything to suit his depraved whims. The sanctity, the sacred rite meant only for Claudia and Appius, was trampled underfoot, but no one dared object to the emperor. They all smiled saccharinely, unwilling to provoke his wrath.

Caracalla was too unsteady to lift her himself, so Geta hauled her to her feet with a sharp tug. The moment she was upright, Caracalla wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing his nose against her neck, grinning lazily in satisfaction, utterly dazed from intoxication.

"Don’t take too long," Geta muttered.

Caracalla only laughed.

The guests echoed him, their laughter swelling to fill the hall. Only Claudia remained silent, her face drained of all color, watching-unblinking—as her sister was dragged toward the room meant for the newlyweds.

"Save me. Save me!" The words pounded in her skull like a funeral bell.

But no one would save her. There wasn't a soul in Rome who would stand against the Emperor, who would shield her from the emperor's hungry gaze.

Nothing from her wedding to Tiberius was happening now. No ritual, no solemn rites—only crude, mocking songs. The men scattered, whistling and shouting obscenities, as if they had already forgotten that the woman being taken was the bride’s sister, handed over to the Emperor against her will.

The women were quieter, but even among them, some did not look at her with pity. Some watched with envy, some with scorn.

All of Rome would know. She had no doubt. If she had managed to keep what happened in the palace a secret from her sisters, there was no hiding this. The stain of shame had already settled over her like a black shadow—right before Claudia’s eyes.

The tears broke free. She couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Caracalla didn’t like that.

His grip on her waist tightened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. In that same soft, honeyed tone, he purred, "Smile, little bird. Or we won’t even need a separate room. I’ll take you right here, in front of everyone. Then, I’ll let them all have their turn—Appius included—while your dear sister watches."

He smiled as he said it.

She forced a smile, too, wiped her tears, and felt her legs trembling beneath her.

A moment later, the clamor faded, the door closed behind them, and they were alone.

Everything inside had been carefully arranged for the young husband and wife. But no one else would be entering this room tonight.

Tonight, it was her cage.

And in front of her, smiling softly, drunk and amused, stood her tormentor.

Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, sitting stiff as a bowstring, clutching at the fabric of her clothes, her cheeks burning.

Caracalla rubs his nose childishly, pulls the laurel wreath from his head, sending his red curls into a wild disarray, then he steps closer and mockingly places it on her head.

"A virtuous matron you will never be. What a pity," he sighed. "But you can still be my sweet little pet, Cassandra."

Her name was another lash of the whip.

The crown on her head feels like thorns, heavy, as though the world’s troubles have been laid upon her.

"Undress," he commands, his voice dropping lower as he positions himself at the head of the bed.

He didn’t undress himself, but she could see—he was aroused. His pale skin was flushed, the paint on his face smudging as he watched her hesitantly move.

Her slowness irritates him. Like a raging fire, he impatiently pulls at the remnants of her clothes, tossing the crown aside like a worthless trinket.

"Why?" she whimpered, while he looked her over with delight, his gaze lingering on the scar he had given her. "Why me? Why are you doing this, Caesar?"

Caracalla stilled.

His turquoise eyes turned glassy, as if lost in thought.

"Why?" He blinked, his long, girlish lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, making him look almost vulnerable, almost innocent.

"Because I can?" he mused. "Because I want you?"

And with each word, he leaned in. His fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing slowly, firmly,

He stared at her without malice, and that made it even more terrifying.

"Do you realize how beautiful you are?" he whispered, his breath hot against her earlobe. His grip tightened. "Do you realize how much I want you?"

His fingers pressed harder.

"The moment I saw you, all I could think about was how much I wanted to destroy you."

She gasped for air.

"You make me so angry, little bird," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her pulse, feeling it race beneath his touch. "And I desperately want to snap this fragile little neck."

She started to gasp for air, and only then did he release her, shoving her away with mockery.

"But not now, hmm? Right now, you need to be quiet, stop asking stupid questions, and fulfill your wifely duties, understood?"

She said nothing more, sitting silently, her head bowed.

"Well, no, this won’t do. This is a wedding, not a funeral! Is that how you greet your husband?" She didn’t know what to do and only raised her tear-streaked face to him.

"Turn around. I can’t stand tears."

She obeyed, turning her back to him, and immediately, he pushed her down onto the sheets, forcing her onto her elbows.

"On all fours, little bird, arch your back," he murmured, his soft palm pressing against her lower back, making her take the most humiliating position possible.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sharp slap against her backside made her gasp, her face buried in the sheets, quietly silencing herself out of shame. Caracalla, clearly pleased with her reaction, grabbed Cassandra’s wrist, twisting it behind her back, forcing her to arch even more and whimper like a beaten animal.

He takes her without warning, quietly exhaling with satisfaction and gripping her thigh painfully. Cassandra only lets out a stifled gasp, not even trying to pretend she enjoys it. Her body is ready to accept him; she’s wet, she can feel it—the drugs have taken effect—but her mind resists.

"See? Even a pedigreed bitch turns out to be just a bitch in the end," he coos tenderly, releasing her hand, squeezing her thighs even harder, leaving scratches on her soft skin.

From a slow, teasing rhythm and lazy purring, he shifts—harsher now, sharper. Her mind empties of all thoughts, as if it's not her hair being roughly yanked, not her shoulders and neck marred with painful bites, and as if it's not her being brutally raped right at her younger sister's wedding.

"Please, stop!" she whimpers, but he only presses her head into the sheets with his hand, continuing.

She sobs, breaking into a moan, a whimper, and then another shameful moan. Worst of all, the guests behind the door might hear it, but Caracalla deliberately pushes everything to a frenzy, to madness, not for nothing did he say he wanted to destroy her.

"This time, it’ll work," he presses his entire body against her back, squeezing her breast, his nails digging painfully into her pale skin. "Be grateful, Jupiter himself has blessed you with his seed." He makes a few more harsh thrusts, sinking even deeper, then freezes with a moan. His hand curls around her neck, forcing her to turn, and kisses her wetly, messily, breathing heavily.

Her legs tremble; she feels dirty, broken. Cassandra can imagine how she looks from the outside: covered in bites and bruises, with tangled hair and swollen lips. A whore.

"Now, now, no time to sulk!" he acts as if nothing has happened, his gaze still feverish and amused. "Now it’s time for your dear sister’s farewell, isn’t it?"

Cassandra understands that tonight will last forever and merely nods in resignation. She is dead inside.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

She never thought she would return to the imperial palace. Just as she never thought that, at such a young age, everything she loved would be destroyed. Nor did she think that she would ever find herself in such a position.

Cassandra waited in the tiny room, more fitting for a slave’s quarters than a place for meetings. She gazed melancholically out of the small window, hugging her shoulders.

"So it’s true."

This wasn’t the voice she had expected.

Emperor Geta seemed out of place in the shabby room, too dramatic and pompous in his expensive clothes and jewels.

"I wasn’t expecting you," she replied coldly.

"I know." He looked her over with a sharp gaze, lingering on her stomach. "But you should understand why I’m here."

With a soft clink, he placed a tiny vial on the table in front of her, and in his black eyes, she saw the reflection of death.

"What about your brother?"

"Oh, he’ll be furious, but… you know, he’s quick to forgive," Geta replied in the same melancholic tone, as if they were old friends. She might have been surprised, if not for the circumstances. Now, he had no reason to hate her.

"So, this is the end?" A sudden emptiness filled her. She wasn’t sad for herself or for the unborn child in her womb.

"It’s salvation, isn’t it?" For the first time, he seemed serious, almost like the emperors of old legends. "He won’t let you go. Caracalla loves his pets."

"And you want him to love only you?" she bitterly smirked and took the vial in her hand.

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his calm demeanor evaporating.

"You wanted to die," he said harshly. "I’m giving you the chance. And even if you don’t take it, I’ll slit your throat myself. Choose, Cassandra."

Hearing her name now felt strange. The gods had played a cruel game with her. Maybe after death, she would find peace? She opened the lid.

"You’ll be buried with honor. I’ll make sure of that," he spoke of her death as if it were nothing. And in truth, it wasn’t. The gods had no interest in mortals and their insignificant lives.

"Please, keep my sisters safe," she whispered, tears flowing down her pale cheeks as she took a sip.

"I promise," was all he said before they fell silent, staring out the tiny window.

The poison spread quickly through her body, painless. She was glad it was Geta who had done this, that he had spared her the necessity of facing Caracalla. Her head grew heavy, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

And, as if mocking her, her mind conjured the image of the second emperor.

A crimson sunset.

Red hair, red robes.

Clear, light blue eyes and that smirk.

"See you soon, little bird."

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hello, my friends! Well, that’s it, the story has come to an end. I think the final is quite logical, though I can’t help but feel a little sad about it.

But for those who enjoyed my story, I have good news! I’ve been deeply inspired by a new plot featuring our ginger little scoundrel, and I’m already finishing the first chapter of a brand-new tale!

Stay tuned 💋

[nct127s]

Kali Uchis by Daniel Sannwald

[sharmeeyn]

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter V)

A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too

word count: ~1k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ☼ ⋆

She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for death—though even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.

In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sisters—dwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.

But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.

The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chest—at least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.

And of one thing, she is certain—Emperor Caracalla will make sure it’s a grand one.

"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.

She knows where she is. These are the emperor’s private quarters—only they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.

Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.

"Expected my brother?"

His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.

He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.

"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"

Geta paused meaningfully.

"…and he is dead, little bird."

A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.

So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.

Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.

Then she felt the moisture.

Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.

And then she screamed.

His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.

Red.

Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.

"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."

His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.

"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.

She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.

"And oh, that’s not all!"

He releases her, and yet she remains still.

"A gift!"

He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.

In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

Caracalla is pleased.

Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.

A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.

She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.

To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.

"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."

"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.

As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.

Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.

How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.

Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.

Geta took it.

Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.

"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.

"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.

In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.

A shiver runs down her spine.

A bet? They were betting? On her?

Caracalla’s expression darkens.

"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.

"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"

"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.

"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"

"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.

He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?

Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.

Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.

"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"

"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"

The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.

What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?

Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.

"Hold her."

And Geta does.

Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.

Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—

But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.

Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.

Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.

When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.

"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."

She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.

He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.

"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.

The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.

Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.

"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.

"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.

"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."

There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.

⋆ ☼ ⋆

Hey friends, we’re almost at the finish line—the next chapter’s gonna be the last one, and it’s kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! 🙂‍↕️

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter IV)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, dub-con, caracalla is a freak (he's cute tho), geta is mean too

word count: 4k

chapter I

chapter II

chapter III

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

"Please, mistress, stay still," the slave murmured, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a finger, leaving behind a thin layer of ointment.

Cassandra lowered her eyes, as if the girl could somehow know how she had earned that wound. Perhaps she suspected. Perhaps she knew for certain—there had been enough witnesses to her disgrace.

She had almost forgotten what it was like to live without the emperor invading her thoughts. What had occupied her mind before Rome? Before all of this? Her family. Giving her husband a son, an heir. Becoming an honorable wife and mother, someone her father and sisters could be proud of.

Would they be proud now, if they knew the truth? Would they smile and nod, the way Antonia’s father had done before the crowd? What would they feel if they knew that the cruel, shameless emperor had begun haunting her dreams? And she—she had started turning away from her husband, recoiling at his touch. Everything reminded her of what she had endured. And the worst part? Her husband’s touch felt worse.

The games were supposed to continue today, but judging by the relentless downpour, they would likely be canceled again. The emperors would not take it well.

Tiberius paced the room, irritation evident in every step as he waited for the slaves to finish dressing her. He was growing more restless by the day, lost in his own thoughts, seemingly oblivious to her shattered state.

Once she was ready, his gaze softened.

Her husband pulled her close and pressed a gentle kiss on her lips.

A shudder ran through her at the thought that Emperor Caracalla would have surely enjoyed knowing that Tiberius was now kissing the very mouth he had defiled.

She had no idea where her husband was taking her, and her confusion only grew when they stepped into a grand chamber three times the size of their own. Only the most powerful could live in such luxury. Cassandra’s gaze landed on General Acacius, standing beside his wife, Lucilla. They were clearly expecting Tiberius—but not her, if the general’s surprised look was anything to go by.

Servants brought wine and delicacies, but Cassandra didn’t touch them. She sat stiffly, nervous, unsure why she was here. Tiberius and Acacius moved to the side, speaking in hushed tones. Lucilla, ever the gracious hostess, smiled warmly and made light conversation, filling the silence until the men returned.

"Tell him what they’ve done this time," Acacius said, quiet yet firm.

Lucilla met his gaze, then looked at Tiberius, then finally at Cassandra.

"They sent the Praetorians. They knew I wouldn’t come willingly," she said.

Cassandra didn’t need names. She already knew who she meant.

"And what did those madmen want now?"

"They wanted me to adopt them. To declare them my sons before the people of Rome," Lucilla said, lips curling in disgust. "Oh, Geta was upset when I declined. But Caracalla… he had another proposal. One I refuse to repeat."

"That insolent whelp!" Tiberius hissed, as if it were his own wife they had insulted.

She could feel her ears and cheeks burning. Lucilla had the strength to refuse, backed by her husband, the general, the shadow of her dead father—the emperor—and the love of the people. Cassandra had nothing. Her husband was her only shield, but he didn’t notice what was happening, and even if he had, there was little he could do about it.

"Their antics are getting worse every day! How much longer are we going to tolerate this?" her husband whispered again.

"Patience, my friend, patience. I’ll handle it," Acacius reassured him, and Tiberius relaxed, his tension easing.

No more was said about the emperors, but Cassandra sat there, as if on needles. What had they talked about? What were they planning? Unfortunately, the conversation shifted to something else and didn’t return to the same topic. She wasn’t allowed to interfere in such matters. Lucilla excused herself, citing business to attend to, and soon after, Tiberius commanded Cassandra to return to their quarters since there was no more company for her.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

The palace was cold and empty. Morning had barely begun, and most noblemen were still asleep. Cassandra shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her bare shoulders and arms. There was no need to rush, so she walked slowly along the covered terrace, watching the rain.

One way or another, he would find her. As long as she remained in the palace, she would never be safe. The realization brought her an odd sense of calm. Let him do as he pleased.

"What business did General Acacius and his wife have that warranted your visit? Has something happened?"

That wasn’t Caracalla’s voice.

Cassandra turned to face the unexpected guest—Emperor Geta.

He looked even gloomier than usual today. Dressed in black and gold, with no laurel to soften his appearance, his face powdered white and his eyes rimmed in red, he resembled the harbinger of death more than an imperial ruler.

It was impossible to miss his anger. Geta, though trying to keep his composure, couldn’t hide it. His jaw clenched beneath his pale skin, and his lips were pressed into a tight line.

And his eyes—oh, those eyes. Exactly the kind that should belong to a herald of darkness—dark, vast, as though no light could reach beyond his irises. Not the transparent, innocent, deceptive blue ones.

"My husband is close to the general, and I enjoy Lucilla’s company. She is a decent woman," Cassandra answered calmly. She had nothing to hide.

"Oh yes, Lucilla," he said, his voice dropping, rougher now, his lips twisted. "My brother is captivated by her as well."

She remembered what Lucilla had said—how the emperors had asked her to adopt them. Remembered how they told her she looked like their mother. And how Caracalla had forced her to wear his mother’s robes. Even now, she stood there wearing his mother’s tunic, The cloak, the earrings, the bracelets, the rings—none of them were hers. And Geta knew that too.

Had his conversation with Lucilla upset him this much? Who else could cut an emperor so deep? Well—perhaps only another emperor.

"And you… you enchant him too, don’t you, little bird?"

His tongue darted out, wetting his pale lips—a nervous habit, perhaps. He stepped forward again, then again, until he was so close she could feel his breath. One more step, and they’d be too close.

"That’s what he calls you, isn’t it?"

Here’s no warmth from him, just coldness, like he’s made of marble. And he smells different, not sweet at all; she can clearly sense the familiar scent of powder, but the sharp herbal scent that lingers around him is unfamiliar.

Geta, despite his involvement in her torment, had always seemed distant to her, withdrawn, uninterested in the games his brother played. Or so she thought. Caracalla wanted something—Geta indulged him. That’s how it had been until yesterday evening, when one of the brothers had claimed something that wasn’t his.

"I’ve always been his," the emperor breathed. "I shared everything with him. Protected him. Stood by his side. I love him."

His thumb brushed the wound at the corner of her lips. He knew. He knew exactly who had done this to her.

"We forgive a lot when it comes to family—even when that family is insane. Don’t we?” His voice dropped lower, darker. “And this is how he repays me? With mockery?"

She didn’t understand, but his gaze darkened even further, his brows knitting together, aging his young face.

"I… I’m sorry that you and your brother are at odds…"

"At odds?" He let out a bitter, low laugh. "Oh, this isn’t a quarrel. But he knows better than anyone how to wound me."

A cold hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up. He was taller than his brother, his hand was rougher.

"And your rejection wounded me, little bird. Am I so unappealing? Or do you simply prefer my brother?"

She barely stopped herself from pulling away. No, not this again. She had learned to endure Caracalla—but not both of them.

What twisted game was this for her attention? They could take her by force, anytime, anywhere. Caracalla already did. So why did Geta care whether she showed him favor?

"If he won’t share, I’ll take what I want myself."

And he did.

They were alike and yet so different. His touch may be cold, but his mouth is like his brother’s—greedy, hot. He was rougher. No smiles, no soft touches—his hand clamped down on her waist, tight enough to bruise. Teeth sank into her lower lip, then a hot tongue traced the same spot, creating a sharp contrast.

"He took you from your husband, now I’m taking you from him. What do you think?" he whispers into her mouth.

She didn’t want to answer. She wanted to pull away, to run. The sound of rain mixed with the pounding of her own heart. He looked different now. The powder was gone from his lips, and Cassandra could still taste it on her tongue after their kiss. His lips were red, full, and gave life to his pale face. He was handsome. In his own way. Caracalla was handsome too. But both of them were corrupted, debauched, greedy. What is she supposed to do?

"Please, don’t involve me in this! I beg you! I’ll be leaving soon, and you’ll never see me again, I promise!" she mumbled.

His eyes flickered with barely contained irritation.

"Do you beg my brother the same way? And what—he just lets you go?" A rough laugh escaped his lips.

Was this all about Caracalla? Does he really want to get under his brother’s skin this much?

Cassandra had three younger sisters—she had raised them after their mother died, fought with them, argued with them. But she had never wanted to truly hurt them.

But these two—twins. Co-rulers. The most powerful men in Rome. No one could wound them except each other.

A strong hand grabs hers once more, sliding the ring off her left hand’s fourth finger. Geta twisted the delicate band between his fingers—so simple, compared to the heavy signet rings adorning his own hand—before removing one from his pinky and replacing it with hers. Now, her fragile, tiny ring rested on his pinky.

"Now we’re bound, huh? The vein leads straight to the heart, right, little bird?" He seemed like himself again, the brooding crease gone, his eyes no longer angry. But still, he mocked her.

"The vein of love," they had told her and Tiberius when she married him, claiming it ran through the fourth finger and bound spouses together. Now she had neither love nor the ring—only a large gold signet with a blue stone.

"Now go, I’m no longer holding you," he said, swiping his tongue over his lips again, a half-smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as if he’d done something wicked.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Not wanting to tempt fate, she nearly ran back to her chambers, rushing past the very spot where Caracalla had defiled her mouth just a day ago. Gods, this entire palace felt like nothing but a place of fear and shame. Now, she was terrified Caracalla might find out about today. Cassandra stopped herself. Since when did the opinion of another man matter more than her own husband’s? It was him she had betrayed. It was him she had been unfaithful to. Not Caracalla.

The thought of running to her father, or even confessing everything to her husband, Lucilla, or anyone else, spun through her mind again and again. She didn’t care anymore. If the Gods wouldn’t listen to her prayers, if they had abandoned her to be torn apart, what did she have left to lose?

This time, she was truly resolved. If Tiberius wouldn’t leave with her, she would ask for a divorce. She hadn’t given him an heir, she had dishonored him and his house by lying with another man. Let her reputation be ruined, let her be sent back to her father in disgrace, let her name be erased from the inheritance, but at least she would be free.

As she angrily packed the few things she had, her hands trembled and her thoughts raced. It was his fault. He swore to protect and honor her, yet he was so consumed by his own affairs that he still failed to see what everyone else already had. She didn’t belong to him anymore. She didn’t even belong to herself.

"What are you doing?" Hearing her husband’s voice, Cassandra didn’t turn around.

"I’m leaving, with or without you," the words finally escaped her lips, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her.

He didn’t answer immediately, but his heavy hand landed on her shoulder, forcing her to turn.

"Hit me, tie me up, do whatever you want. I can’t stay here anymore!"

To her surprise, Tiberius was calm, subdued. His hand gently stroked her cheek, and she immediately felt a wave of disgust at the bad memories.

"Please, just one night," he pleaded, his voice full of desperation. "Just one night, and I’ll lay Rome at your feet. If you want, you can go back to the villa, or to your father, but not now. Not today."

Cassandra didn’t love him. Right now, she even hated him, but her heart softened, and despite all her self-scolding, she had no choice but to agree. One last night.

"In the morning, l'm leaving," she said firmly.

She'd never been so resolute. When you have nothing left to lose, there's no fear.

That's what she thought.

The rest of the day, Cassandra stayed in her chambers, comforted by the thought that tomorrow everything would end.

No more games, no more emperors, no more palaces, no more humiliations.

Maybe she'd stay with her husband and give him a son after all, or maybe she'd ask for a divorce and return to her father, childless and unmarried, but with what little honor she had left.

She glared at Geta's signet ring with hatred. What if he hadn't claimed her today? Would she have endured her brother's debauchery until the end of the games? Probably.

A nervous laugh escaped her lips. So, should she thank him? She had just reached to pull the ring off when a sharp knock at the door made her freeze. Who could it be? Tiberius wouldn’t knock.

"Imperial Guard! Open up!" a voice commanded from the other side.

Night had long fallen. A visit at this hour could mean nothing good.

Still, she obeyed, schooling her face into something unreadable as she pulled the door open.

"Come with us, domina. You’re expected."

There was no room for argument; that much was clear.

Not wanting to be dragged through the halls like a criminal, Cassandra followed the Praetorians. But inside, panic twisted her stomach, her palms damp with sweat. This wasn’t just some summons. Something was happening. Something final.

She expected to be taken to Caracalla’s chambers—but no, they led her straight to the throne room. And when she saw her husband kneeling on the cold marble, with General Acacius and Lucilla standing nearby, surrounded by Praetorians, a terrible weight settled in her chest.

She wanted to run.

This wouldn’t end well.

Then she saw them. And she realised she probably wouldn’t survive the night. They weren’t thinking about her anymore—not their petty games, not their rivalry, and certainly not her body. Before her stood not bickering brothers, but emperors—furious, merciless, ready to pass judgment.

They didn’t even look like themselves. Both had clearly been dragged from their beds. Geta was wrapped in a red silk robe, barefoot, without his usual powdered face. He looked young—almost boyish—with his trembling lips and restless movements.

And Caracalla… to meet Caracalla’s eyes now was to court death. She couldn’t tell who he hated more—her or the ones who had betrayed them. Though, the difference was probably negligible.

The emperor is vulnerable. Cassandra watches as he pulls the sheet tighter around himself, stripped of his makeup and fine clothes—young, looking almost innocent, just like his brother. He’s irritated, uncomfortable that she’s seeing him like this, his lips, red even without paint, twisting in displeasure. She almost let out a nervous laugh, but there was no room for laughter now.

Pretorians shoved her to her knees next to her husband, doing it roughly, without any care. Acacius and Lucilla have already been dragged from the throne room—their sentence has been passed, judging by the rage still burning in the emperors' eyes. Now it’s their turn.

"Our general! The Senate! All of them—traitors, liars!" Geta paces back and forth, clutching the fabric of his robe against his pale body. His voice trembles, breaking into something close to hysteria.

Through the sting of tears, she barely saw him. Just a red blur, darting back and forth.

"I gave you everything! I pulled you out of that wretched hole you called home! I gave you a position, a roof over your head—my friendship!" His voice cracked. "And this is how you repay me? With betrayal?"

"What do I need your friendship for, boy?" Tiberius' voice was like ice. "You and your brother are insane. If you think I’m the last, you’re wrong. Others will come. They will betray you again and again, until you’re both dead."

Cassandra’s stomach dropped.

Silence, gods, silence him!

If he stopped now, maybe their deaths would be quick. Maybe it wouldn’t be so painful. But as she looked up, she knew—it was too late.

Geta had gone deathly pale, his face frozen in pure, seething rage. Only his eyes burned, black as coal.

"You'll be crucified like the worthless filth you are, and your name will be forgotten!" he spat. "You and your wife will feel our wrath in full."

For the first time since the praetorians had brought her in, Cassandra was mentioned, but Geta didn't even glance at her, unleashing his fury on Tiberius instead. But Caracalla was watching her.

She could feel his gaze like a physical weight. Cold, hateful-he wasn't playful anymore, not even trying to force a smile. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his light brows were furrowed. For the first time, the emperor seemed fully human, wrapped in a white sheet, sitting on one of the golden thrones.

"She didn't know anything. There's no need to kill her," her husband interjected, clearly making things worse.

At his words, Caracalla suddenly erupted in high-pitched laughter, clapping his hands. He stood up, and Cassandra instinctively shrank back, wanting to vanish. A long sword fell from his lap, one he didn’t even bother to pick up. The sound of his bare feet was oddly loud. She didn’t dare raise her gaze, fully convinced that he would kill her right then and there. His little pet wasn’t what he had expected, and the games needed to stop.

"Didn’t know anything," he drawled. "Poor, innocent girl, huh?" He stopped right in front of her, forcing her to lift her head, painfully grabbing her chin, squeezing.

"Leave her alone!" Her husband’s words no longer mattered. Both emperors could see that he didn’t regret his betrayal and was ready for death, but… but she wasn’t part of his plan. It seemed he truly cared for her.

Geta seemed calmer now, though he still nervously snapped his fingers. Following his brother, he moved closer, looking directly at her for the first time. Not breaking eye contact, he spoke:

"Macrinus, when did you learn of the conspiracy?" He addressed someone behind her.

"The day you were attacked in the Colosseum, Emperor," a voice behind her replied. "After we left the box, Senator Thraex kindly told me. That same day, the traitors plotted the conspiracy."

Geta and Caracalla’s lips curled into synchronized, sinister smiles.

"Lucilla and your wife, it seems, were close, yes?" Geta began, dripping with false sweetness.

"She didn’t know anything, stop this game!"

"And why should we believe the words of a fucking traitor, hmm?" The usual Caracalla seemed to be back, playfully twisting her head from side to side, still squeezing her chin painfully. The last time she had knelt before him, it hadn’t ended well. Her cheeks flushed, and her heart pounded in fear.

Nothing could escape his gaze; his eyes, black from dilated pupils, immediately locked onto her face, examining, scrutinizing, reading every emotion. His lips stretched into a grin, revealing a gold tooth. Even naked, wrapped only in a sheet, he was tied to gold.

"But let’s ask our esteemed Roman matron, we’re not tyrants after all, right, brother?" Geta's chuckle served as his answer. No one in the room believed those words. "Where were you when your husband was plotting against us? Where were you after the games?"

He knew the answer. And so did she. Her neck, cheeks, and ears flushed with color. Tiberius had remained proud and defiant to the end, and they had decided to play a different game. Judging by the dilated pupils and smug grins on their faces, everything had taken a turn they both enjoyed. They would destroy her husband's spirit, then hers, and then kill them both.

"With you, Caesar," she replied obediently, knowing silence would only make things worse. She had been told this countless times by the emperors themselves.

Tiberius immediately turned at her words, looking at her with his lips pressed tight. She hadn’t said anything terrible yet, but…

"You know, my brother can be so forgetful at times," Geta's tone took on a softness, a slyness akin to Caracalla's. Now they were bound by shared hatred, a common penchant for sadism, and the desire to destroy them. "Could you remind him what that meeting was about?"

"Caesar, I..." she couldn't say it. She couldn't say anything at all. Tears silently streamed down her cheeks. The last humiliation remained, and then it would all be over. Suddenly, she felt a bit of relief. They couldn't reach her once she was dead.

"Speak, girl," Caracalla's thumb slid across her mouth, tracing its outline harshly, roughly, anything but tenderly, "or you'll lose your little tongue and won't be able to defend yourself."

"I was with Emperor Caracalla. One of the slave girls saw us. After the games... We were at the altar, and..."

Yet, the words wouldn't come; she just couldn't voice the filth they expected from her, not while Tiberius looked at her with such disappointment in his eyes.

"Oh, how I love that even after everything that's happened between us, the little bird is still so pure," Caracalla burst out laughing, releasing her face. "I remember and will answer for her. I fucked her on my father's ashes, and because of that, she will live. Once again, the emperor has been too merciful, hasn't he, Senator?"

Live? She felt sick. She didn’t want to live. Not now, when the disgust in her husband’s eyes was so palpable. Ashamed, she turned away, sobbing.

"What, little bird? Did you truly believe you could get rid of me so easily? Your emperor?" His hand stroked her hair, soothing her as if she were an untamed animal. "No," he drawled, "you’re not capable of such a thing. You could have ended me, not once and not twice—bit off my cock, after all," and again, that hysterical laughter escaped him, his gaze fixed on her husband. Caracalla wanted to ensure Tiberius truly understood his words, "but no, you obediently took it, as you should."

She will never have it her way; he'll never let her simply leave or die, he'll keep playing until the very end.

"And yet," Geta began, "she deserves punishment, doesn't she?"

Cassandra lifted her tear-stained face to him. Why? Why was he partaking in this? Was it her refusal that offended him, or was it simpler, that he, like his brother, just enjoyed tormenting her?

"An unfaithful wife," Caracalla mused, tapping his finger against his lips as if her trial were happening right then in front of all Rome’s esteemed citizens. Only, there were no esteemed citizens here. "What a heinous crime!" He gasped theatrically, covered his mouth in mock horror. "Tiberius, you were faithful to your wife, weren’t you? I believe you were, but your sweet young wife, she was not so loyal. And if I, an honorable man unburdened by the chains of marriage, can partake in such acts, then, by the gods, what was she thinking?"

She wanted to sink into the ground—or maybe charge at the emperor, and then they’d kill her right there, so she wouldn’t have to endure these humiliating speeches anymore. But Cassandra didn’t move; she didn’t have the courage. Humiliated and cowardly, she stayed on her knees, arms wrapped around herself in a pitiful attempt to find some comfort. Tiberius didn’t even look at her. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, focused on where Caracalla was caricaturing a trial.

"Women are inherently corrupt, you know," Geta joined in. "'Chaste is she whom no one has coveted' isn’t that right?"

In the torch-lit darkness of the hall, their hair seemed to burn against their pale skin. Both had dark, piercing eyes, still furious over the betrayal, yet satisfied with their petty revenge. Cassandra watched as they exchanged looks, their smiles perfectly synchronized. Caracalla’s grin only grew wider at his brother’s words. There they were, the very embodiment of vice, pride, and wrath.

How can he say such things? How dare he speak as if she wanted all the terrible things the emperor did to her!? Was he blaming her? She looked at her husband desperately, but he seemed to share the emperor’s view, his lips tight, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his pale skin.

Oh, they had gotten what they wanted—he was enraged, furious! And all because of her. Was she really to blame for everything? Maybe it was the way she looked at the emperor, maybe she’d allowed too much, given the slightest hint? Her heart pounded so violently, it felt like it might shatter her ribs.

"But don’t worry, Tiberius, I’ll punish her as she deserves," the mockery and the insinuation so obvious it made her want to scream. "After your death, of course, but if you ask nicely, I'll show you how to handle women so they don't betray they vows, right now."

He leaned slightly toward her, his hot hand on her neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow between her collarbones, making her gasp and cough.

"Wouldn't a golden collar look exquisite on this little neck, hm? For the next games, I'll take you with me," his whisper burned her ear. "Naked."

Cassandra recoiled, bracing her hands against her knees, her head dropping. He was insane. The feverish gleam in his eyes, his flushed cheekbones, the way he bit his lower lip, his heavier breathing-all of it terrified her. He wasn't a mere sadist; he was completely out of his mind.

It seemed that even his brother found his words too deranged this time.

"She’ll be judged as she should be. The Senate… or what’s left of it, and we, of course, will pass a sentence fitting her crime."

"But I want her for myself!" Caracalla’s voice turned bitter, low with anger. How dare his brother forbid him anything!

"This won’t do. She’s still the daughter of a powerful man, and how do you think the Senate will react? Will you take their wives too?"

"I’ll take them if I wish!" Caracalla snapped petulantly, his playful mood shifting to fury.

It seemed they were about to clash, to fight right in front of them. Gods, her life was hanging by a thread, and they were acting like spoiled children! How insignificant she must be in their eyes.

And yet, the fight never came. In a gesture of reconciliation, Geta pulled his brother into an embrace, his arms settling around his delicate shoulders. Leaning in, he whispered something into his ear. Cassandra caught his gaze and knew at once—he was speaking of her. Caracalla smiled again.

At Geta’s command, she was taken away. No one spoke to her after that.

Tiberius remained in the hall. She knew she would never see him again. One last time, she turned to look at her husband, hoping to catch his eye, but he never looked back.

To him, she was already dead.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hey friends! The next chapter will be a short one, but it’s coming out tomorrow! Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would like my work since I love dark and tragic stories, and they’re usually not very popular. So I’m really grateful for all the kind words—it truly inspires me! 💋

[bel0ved-heretic]

his necklace hangs, his hair is a bit messy, he's still scared about what happened

[mylittlepimp]

I swear this moment lives rent free in my head

[ekkkkey]

My commission by ECLER

Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla х OC 😇🫶🏻

[baby-im-urs]

to all the people writing for caracalla….

i love you. i cannot get enough of that freaky little ginger

[asianrabbit]

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025)

[spider-mann]

JOSEPH QUINN as JOHNNY STORM The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025) Dir. Matt Shakman

[joesquinns]

JOSEPH QUINN as JOHNNY STORM in The Fantastic Four: First Steps

[spider-mann]

Joseph Quinn as Johnny Storm The Fantastic Four: First Steps (2025) Dir. Matt Shakman

[goborn2win]

[happusinghsstuff]

Unbelievable !Is it Ash?