thinking about writing for edward norton’s characters but idk. i had in mind the narrator/jack/whatever his name is (fight club), aaron/roy stampler, randall ward and miles from glass onion. it feels a bit stupid tho so idk
summary. Not even the holiest temple of the empire, nor its towering walls, nor the sanctity of Roman faith could shield your sacred oath from the reach of Emperor Caracalla.
word count. 5.6k
warnings. dark themes. religious themes/guilt. dub-con. fingering (f). vaginal intercourse. unprotected sex (please use protection if u don’t want a baby or an sti). creampie. talks about first times. blink and you’ll miss the sti mention. death through live entombment. historically inaccurate (dont look at me) deprecating language towards concubines i’m sorry. fem!reader. i didn’t provide much physical description just small breast. this may touch topics bigger than this fic and the whole movie, please don’t take anything seriously. shame, shame and shame because you can’t take the catholic school out of the girl — so in roman faith it maybe not shame oops. english isn’t my first language.
a/n. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛. this is my first time writing smut and i have NO experience at all so expect whatever. caracalla gives small dick energy but it’s fine. please babes read the warnings i don’t want to trigger anyone, stay safe 🫶🏼 ily all.
THE FIRE ALMOST LICKED YOUR FACE AS YOU LEANED IN, STRETCHING TO RELIGHT ONE OF THE CANDLES THAT HAD GONE OUT.
The heat pressed against your skin, and for a fleeting moment, you reached up to touch the veil covering your face, half-expecting to find it scorched, melted away like wax. Should it be taken as a sign? The goddess often spoke in symbols, in whispers of smoke and flickering flames, guiding the six Vestals entrusted with keeping the sacred fire alive.
But you had never felt the goddess close.
Not once.
The thought sat heavy in the back of your mind, an ache you rarely allowed yourself to acknowledge. If the gods had abandoned you, if they had never truly called you to this fate, what did that mean? The stories suggested that those forsaken by their divinities had only one path left— painful death. You don’t fear death, but if you were left by your own devices, there’s only a few punishments you would go through if the slightest sight of what’s inside shows.
A rustling of fabric broke your thoughts.
“We should take turns,” said Aurelia, her voice soft, hesitant.
You turned to her, watching as she fidgeted with the delicate folds of her veil. Aurelia was the embodiment of faith, the very vision of purity and devotion—never nervous, never uncertain. And yet, here she stood before you, hands trembling slightly, her eyes darting away as if afraid to meet yours.
You studied her for a long moment, searching for answers in the quiet between you.
“Is something wrong?” you finally asked.
She hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough for the flickering firelight to cast shadows across her face.
“I—I’m tired,” she murmured.
It was a lie. You could hear it in the slight hitch of her breath, see it in the way her fingers twisted around the fabric of her robes.
Your own eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths settling over you.
Something was wrong.
But you let it pass, unfortunately.
YOUR FOOTSTEPS WERE DELICATE, SOFTENED BY THE CRACKLING HUM OF THE FIRE.
Thoughts swirled in your mind, feelings of uneasiness crawling through your spine as you pondered why Aurelia had seemed so desperate to escape. There was a strange weight in your stomach, an unsettling sense that perhaps you were being excluded, left alone in this sacred space. The temple had always been a place of solace, yet tonight it felt foreign, far and almost suffocating. You had never been alone here before—nor had you ever felt quite so distant from the others.
It wasn’t that you lacked a belief in the gods, nor were you entirely devoid of grace, but somehow your spirit always felt like it existed on the outskirts of devotion. The other girls were steadfast, their faith blooming like a garden of unyielding confidence. And you, in comparison, were a flicker—a flame too fragile and small to catch the attention of the divine. People might have called you fortunate, chosen to safeguard the sacred fire, but months of solitude had quietly eroded any certainty you had about your own place within the temple walls. Your heart grew heavy with doubt in your sanctity and in your purpose.
The day the twin Emperors visited, it all seemed to shift. Geta, calm and composed, held himself with some dignity, though there was a certain sharpness in his gaze, a warning to those who dared fall short. His presence, though commanding, was distant. But Caracalla… Caracalla was something else entirely. His recklessness set the air on fire, he had a wild energy. He wore a mischievous smile that stirred something primal in your chest, making your pulse quicken, your breath falter.
He approached you, too close, too boldly. His ring-clad fingers danced with ease along the hem of your veil, grazing the curve of your shoulder. It was the smallest of touches, but it burned—seared its way into your skin. And when your eyes met his, when you stupidly allowed your gaze to linger, something in his expression shifted. It was no longer a smile, but something darker, something dangerous. You couldn’t name it then, but it made a fire bloom deep in your core, a warmth that spread in waves through your veins. The flame expanded when his knuckles brushed your cheekbone. His smile deepened, his eyes turning as dark as the night sky. And in the naïveté of your mind, you dared to think it was the gods themselves drawing near. You foolishly believed they had come to speak to you.
But then, with a slap of his hand, Geta’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, and everything turned to fog. After that, you remembered nothing.
Now, as your name echoed softly through the blurred silence, you turned, your breath catching in your throat. The world around you felt uncertain, hazy, as though you had crossed into a realm where nothing was meant to happen, and yet everything was. Confusion poured down your face, but still, you recognized him—Caracalla.
His energy, raw and untamed, circled you, wrapping around your mind and heart in a dizzying blur. There was a part of you that wanted to pull away, to retreat into the quiet sanctity of the temple, to places only you knew, to remind yourself of the sacredness you were meant to uphold. But that part of you was drowned out by an unspoken call that urged you forward, into the chaos he brought.
And then, with a suddenness that took your breath away, he was there. His hand on your waist, pressing you against the cold stone, and all your thoughts scattered. Despite his smaller stature, Caracalla’s force was overwhelming, driven by a newfound force. His presence swallowed you whole, leaving no room for thought, no space to resist.
“Aren’t you a little Godsend?” His voice was low, mocking. “Rome’s favorite Vestal… so pure, so untouchable.” His smile widened, darkening his features.
Caracalla’s laughter, dark and sardonic, hummed against your ear. His voice was a ripple in the air, the sound of something so dangerous yet tantalizing. Your body froze, whether it was fear or desire you couldn’t know. The line between the two blurred as the pleasures of the flesh—foreign, forbidden—saturated your senses. His touch was invasive. You had never wanted to be touched like this, you didn’t know you could. Your heart hammered, and in the dimness of your mind, you begged the Gods to turn their eyes away, to you, to let the sacred fire burn out in atonement for your sins, for the betrayal of your vow. The Gods could blind themselves to your transgression, your weakness, your broken oath. Perhaps this was your punishment.
His fingers, driven by a reckless hunger, sought your center—awkward, eager, and almost feral in their pursuit. You fought the urge to speak—to ask him, with a trembling voice, if he knew what he was doing. But that would be dangerous. Too dangerous. His state only weighed your unholiness further. Buried beneath 6-feet of dirt. It made your breath heavy, it made your mind turn into a downward spiral.
Your breath quickened, a strange weight pressing on your chest. And then, when his fingers finally found their target, you jolted against him involuntarily, as if the air itself had shifted in your lungs. He kissed your neck, a soft graze of lips against your skin, and you had no choice but to melt into him, as though your body had betrayed you too. His rings scraped your sensitive flesh, an almost mocking reminder of the weight of his power over you.
The delicate, sacred space you had once held in reverence was slipping away, slipping into his hands. The center that had been yours alone, the place where no man had ever tread, was now violated—corrupted by him. And everything else, your dignity, your faith, your sanctity, would follow. It would all be his.
Caracalla was finding momentary sanity in the action.
“You’re a gift sent from the Gods,” he whispered against your ear, his words dripping with a twisted promise, like a threat beneath honeyed temptation. The sound of your breath—choked, gasped—was foreign to you, a new thing emerging from your throat. It was a moan, or something close to it, unrecognizable and raw.
His movements were unrefined, a desperate rhythm against your clit, slick with the evidence of his intrusion. The sensation sent waves of confusion and discomfort through you. You arched your back, instinctively attempting to distance yourself from the foreign touch. But it was a new sensation, one that both terrified and confused you. It was unlike anything you had ever felt—the same unnamable feeling you had experienced the first time he dared touch your face, but brutal and more suffocating. Words and knowledge were smaller than that.
When his fingers trailed along your slit, his cold rings grazing your clit, your body reacted violently—your knees buckled beneath you. You leaned forward, struggling to keep your balance, only for your elbows to crash against the unforgiving cold marble. Caracalla was quick, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you upright, guiding your trembling body back in position. His wet hand slid to the side of your face, squeezing it roughly against the marble.
“Stand still. Don’t be stupid,” he growled, frustration creeping into his voice. His short fuse was infamous amongst the Vestals. You could feel it in the harshness of his grip, the sharp edge of his command.
His hand returned to the warmth between your thighs, this time tracing soft, deliberate circles around your entrance, playing, teasing. The cool bite of his rings brushed against your clit, drawing another moan from your lips—this one unrestrained, wanton. Caracalla pressed closer, his body molding against yours, his hardness unmistakable against the curve of your ass. Yet thought itself felt impossible, dissolving into the heat pooling in your core as his finger finally entered you, finding the place that was once sacred.
For a fleeting moment, the sensation was so wholly consuming, so unlike anything you had ever known, that you almost believed the Gods were speaking through him. But then a broken sob escaped your throat, and as your gaze flickered downward, reality sharpened. His fingers lay claim to your most untainted place, and you knew—this was no divine intervention.
It was close to a secure and painful death, buried alive. But you couldn’t be selfless enough to try and make him stop.
A whimper escaped as he pushed another finger inside, stretching you open, slow and unyielding. The sensation was a paradox—pain and pleasure entwined, like pressing against the sting of a wound, knowing it would hurt and yet seeking it still. Your walls fluttered around him, instinctively resisting, and he exhaled a quiet, satisfied hum.
“Would you like a taste?” he whispered, his lips grazing your cheek.
Before you could comprehend what he meant, he pressed his slick fingers against your mouth, parting your lips with ease. The taste was unfamiliar, strange, yet not unpleasant. “Suck them,” he commanded, and you obeyed—what else could you have done?
A pleased sound rumbled from his throat as your tongue hesitantly curled around his fingers. The response was immediate. Your body arched, pressing into him, seeking the return of his touch before you could even think to deny yourself.
As if he could read your mind, he obliged. But this time, there was no patience. He thrust his fingers back inside, deeper, rougher, as if he had only been toying with you before. You had no way of knowing. No way of understanding. There was only the rhythm of his fingers, disappearing into your slick heat, withdrawing just enough to tease before plunging back into your warmth.
He barely felt any pleasure from the moans, groans, or breathless cries of his concubines. Their sounds were rehearsed, predictable. It was a performance meant to appease him, to convince him of his own prowess. They existed to stroke the Emperor’s ego, not to satiate his desires. And so, more often than not, he silenced them—pushing their faces into silken pillows, muttering sharp commands that reduced them to nothing but warm, pliant flesh beneath him.
But this was different.
Your sounds were uncertain, trembling on your lips because you understood the weight of this sin. Your moans were small, caught in your throat, untrained. There was no calculation behind them, no attempt to please him, no knowledge of how to. You were real. And that alone was enough to undo him.
“Caracalla,” you breathed, voice breaking as his short but thick fingers curled inside you, coaxing a sharp arch from your spine. Your hands grasping at the cold marble as your knees threatened to buckle once more. The unyielding surface bruised the delicate skin of your arms, but you barely registered it beneath the slow, torturous drag of his fingers within you.
He kept his pace unhurried, savoring each tremor that rippled through you. He was impossibly hard, grinding against you in reckless, languid movements. And then, he laughed—soft, breathless, as if delighting in a private, nasty joke.
He was having the sweetest thing in the empire. Not even his brother could claim such a gift. To take a Vestal, to be chosen by the Gods themselves to desecrate something so holy—there was no greater privilege. No greater proof of his favor.
But you felt only the weight of abandonment.
His hand ghosted over the curve of your waist, sliding upward until his fingers found the swell of your breast, still covered in soft linen. He squeezed, possessive, branding bruises into the tender skin beneath the fabric.
The fire that had settled deep in your core spread, licking at every inch of your skin, turning your clothes damp with sweat. Strands of hair clung to your fevered face, the scent of sweat and something faintly sweet lingering in the air. You swallowed hard, shame clawing its way up your throat as the unbearable sensation built between your thighs.
“I think I need to pee—” you whimpered, mortified by the confession. It was unbearable, a pressure unlike anything you had ever known, twisting deep inside you.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek—brief, careless, lacking tenderness. A hollow gesture of gratitude beneath the watchful eyes of the Gods. He would play his part, and so he continued, his touch growing rougher, more insistent. The hard edges of his rings grazed your clit in passing, a clash of warmth and cold, of flesh and metal, sending a sharp tremor through your body.
You could not name this feeling. It was neither fear nor excitement, yet it curled deep inside you, spreading quickly.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced yourself for the humiliation that was sure to follow—for the shame of breaking in front of the Emperor, the one whom the Gods spoke through. A whisper at the back of your mind wondered if he ignored your trembling because he thought you might run.
If a soul knew of this, it would be the end of you.
And then, in a single breath, your body was separated from your mind. A slow, uncoiling wave surged through you, leaving you trembling, your form convulsing against the cold marble and the solid press of Caracalla’s body. It was an eruption, a collapse—inside the temple, inside yourself. For him, it was all the same.
No sound escaped your lips, only the soft shudder of breath as the moment shattered within you.
He slowed his movements, his grip turning almost indulgent. Soothing his newly claimed treasure, his sacred offering.
One hand lifted, wrapping firm and possessive around your throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make you feel the weight of his claim. Like a hound with its prey.
“You’re truly a godsend,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent in its own way. “I knew it the first time I saw you… My stupid brother was wrong.”
You did not know what he meant, nor did you know what to say. You could only stand there, caught between his grasp and the remnants of something nameless unraveling inside you.
Your body stirred, aching, the dull throb in your neck reminding you of its strain. You shifted, instinctively trying to turn toward him, but he stopped you. Why should he deny himself the sight of you—the flush warming your cheeks, the softness in your features as you unraveled beneath him? One hand still pressed your cheek against the cool marble pillar.
“Stay there. Don’t try anything.”
But why would he think you would? Why assume defiance when you had already surrendered, when you would fall to your knees if it meant this feeling could last forever? Hadn’t you spent your life in prayer, in devotion? Hadn’t it been all you ever knew, all you ever were?
You felt him shift behind you, heard the quiet muttering of a curse as he wrestled with his own garments. Your eyes, following his movements as best they could from your awkward position, caught glimpses of him—his form smaller than his brother’s, his features marked by the cruel affliction whispered about everywhere.
Compassion ghosted through your heart, a fleeting thing. But you did not pity him. Perhaps he was right—perhaps he had been forsaken by the Gods only to be rewarded in the end. Even if you could not understand why you were his gift.
The struggle ended with a quiet exhale, and then he was upon you again. His hands, rough, found the bare skin beneath your garments, pushing the fabric aside with practiced ease. Another breeze slipped through the temple, meeting your newly exposed flesh, making your body arch instinctively—anticipating, aching, silently craving for the fire to consume you once more.
But then—something else. Something different.
A slow, deliberate glide through your folds, featherlight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, soft sounds escaping his lips, slipping into the sacred hush of the temple.
And all you could do was wait, trembling, caught between the cold marble and his touch. It was foolish to ask. Foolish to do anything but wait, to surrender and expect nothing and everything all at once. The fire inside you rekindled, licking at your skin, unfurling through your limbs. Everything bloomed again, sharper, stronger, until it pushed soft, breathless moans past your lips.
He pressed against you, the hardened length grazing your clit over and over, sending exquisite tremors through your body. Instinctively, you sought more, aching for him to consume you entirely. You wanted to melt against him, for your skin to become his, for this moment to live beyond time—a myth whispered through the ages, even if its end was tragic.
A groan, deep and unrestrained, spilled from his lips as he pressed the tip inside you, his teeth dragging along your cheek in a near-affectionate torment. Your breath hitched. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.
He thought he was about to explode when he pushed the tip inside your welcoming and holy walls. A high pitched groan kissed your ears, as his teeth caressed your cheek. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.
Now, even as pleasure clouded your senses, you grasped why this was forbidden, why it was punished by death. The Gods had to be jealous of earthly delights, of mortal pleasure. Of the way divinity itself could be found in something so profane.
He pushed deeper. He was not large, bit thick, but the sheer intimacy of it made your body tighten around him, made your breath catch as the stretch burned sweet and unbearable. You couldn’t remember how to stop, how to breathe properly.
His breath was hot against your cheek, heavy, his presence overwhelming. With every inch, he stole the air from your lungs, until there was nothing left of you but this.
Caracalla laughed again—a low, humorless sound, thick with madness and possession. It slithered down your spine, coiling itself around your throat. There was no escaping this. No running from the hands that bruised your hips, from the hunger that devoured you whole.
His touch burned, his fingers pressing into your flesh as if to leave his mark beneath the skin. He was savoring you—drinking you in—every tremor, every flutter of your cunt around him, the way you stretched, soft and wet, to fit him. It was a feverish worship.
“Even holier than I thought,” he murmured, almost reverent.
But you weren’t listening. Not to his words, not to reason, not to the lingering taste of sin on your tongue. Your mind floated somewhere between pleasure and death, where all things bled together. You pressed your forehead against the cold marble, your cheek slipping from his, as if to escape the heat of his breath.
But there was no escaping him. The Emperor of Rome had carved himself inside you.
A ragged groan spilled from his lips as he withdrew just enough to make you whimper. He did not leave you, would not leave you—just hovered on the edge, teasing, savoring, as if you were something holy. The last thing he would ever kneel before.
Then, with a slow, deliberate push, he sank deeper.
Your body shuddered violently, pleasure and pain melting together, and when your knees threatened to give, his grip only tightened. He would not let you fall.
And then he did it again. And again. And again.
Each slow thrust burned through you, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock dragging against every trembling part of you. He was deliberate, agonizingly so, grinding deep, only pressing further into your undoing. You felt yourself unraveling. His scent, earthy, musky, heavy with sweat, sank into your skin, drowning your senses.
It was torment for you both, though for different reasons. Caracalla was nearly edging himself, caught in the cruel conflict of restraint and indulgence. He should be taking you as he did all others—without thought, without care, without this unbearable intimacy. He should be brutal, impatient, spent and gone before he even learned the shape of your pleasure.
But you were no common whore. No concubine plucked from the outskirts of the empire. You were a gift from Venus herself.
You should’ve been ashamed, mortified, trashing against him… under every opportunity you had. Yet there was no shame to be found in something that carried you so dangerously close to heaven. No guilt in the way your back arched, the way your body curved into him, silently begging for more. Your skin knew no hesitation, no hesitation at all. Not in this temple. Not in the sacredness of the moment.
He moved inside you like a slow-burning prayer, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Just enough to fill you, just enough to claim you without pain. His breath was ragged, strained, as he fought the instincts that begged him to ruin you. His hands, restless and greedy, traced your body relentlessly.
And when he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a hushed, broken confession. “You feel divine.”
“You’re mine,” he rasped, pathetically.
His hips faltered, momentarily losing control, and in his desperation, he drove himself deeper—sharp, bruising thrusts that tore a strangled cry from your throat. The sound, so raw and unbidden, made his cock twitch inside you, sent a shudder rippling down his spine.
Caracalla felt like he was slipping, spiraling, unraveling into something violent and insatiable. He wanted. And he would take.
The rhythm he set was slow but merciless, each thrust deliberate and punishing. Flesh met flesh in a sinful, wet sound that would haunt you long after your body was spent. His balls slapped against your slick center. He dropped his head near your shoulder, mouth grazing the sweat-damp skin, inhaling you.
“I should’ve taken you sooner,” he admitted, and there was something almost mournful in the way he said it. “I shouldn’t have waited.”
The thought of his brother’s voice, his warnings and his disapproval only fueled him further. The sacred place. The sacred women. And yet here you were, bent and broken against the pillar, moaning for the emperor’s cock. It was a desecration. And the Gods did nothing to stop it.
His fingers found your neck again, grazing at your jaw as he squeezed softly, just to get your attention, just for you to feel the weight of his desire. “You belong to me.”
A brutal thrust, deeper this time, made you gasp, your breath catching in short, ragged moans.
“You were always meant to be mine.”
The words ghosted over your skin, lingering, sinking into your very bones. And all around you, the temple remained still, silent.
The Gods were only witnesses.
His words wove themselves into your skin, into your very marrow, a curse. Each thrust was ruthless, driving you deeper against the pillar, your body trembling, breath spilling from your lips in sharp, uneven gasps. The wet, obscene sound of him inside you filled the temple, mingling with the lingering scent of burning incense, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air.
In a moment of clearness you wanted to resist. You wanted to push him away, to tell him this was wrong, that the Gods would never forgive this. But you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you—hips rolling back against him, nails scraping against the cold marble as you arched, as you offered yourself to him. And it was long forgotten again.
A low, ragged groan tore from his throat as his fingers raked down your spine, pressing into the small of your back, forcing you to take him deeper, harder.
“My Vestal,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, thick with possession. “My sacred little thing.”
The words sank into your bones like poison. A violent shudder ripped through you, your walls tightening around him in response. Always belonging to something greater—a city, a people, a divine presence. To the Emperor.
Caracalla let out a sharp, guttural sound, his pace losing all restraint, turning erratic, frenzied. He wasn’t simply fucking you. He was branding you, consuming you, as though he could carve his name into your flesh, into your soul, until nothing remained of you but him.
His grip was merciless, bruising fingers dragging you onto him with thoughtless hunger, as if you were not a woman, not flesh and soul, but something crafted for him—his to desecrate, his to break. Everything he touched was bound to be annihilated. And now, so were you.
The pleasure was unbearable, searing through you like molten iron, scalding and consuming, turning you into something raw, something wild. It built deep within, unrelenting, teetering at the edge of violence—so intense it almost hurt.
Then his hand slid between your legs, fingertips brushing over your clit, teasing, pressing.
It was too much. A strangled cry ripped from your throat, your body recoiling, snapping forward as pleasure crashed through you like divine punishment. You clawed at the marble, at anything, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run from the overwhelming force tearing through you.
Your walls clenched around him, spasming in the throes of your release. A strangled moan broke from your lips—raw, wrecked, helpless. Your legs trembled, your body shuddering as ecstasy crashed over you in unrelenting waves, leaving you undone, ruined, and his.
Trapped between the pillar and his tiny body.
Caracalla groaned, his breath hot against your ear, his thrusts turning erratic as he felt you tightening around him, dragging him deeper into his own oblivion. His body seized, pleasure snapping through him like a lightning strike.
But he didn’t stop moving.
His hands crushed your waist, forcing you onto him as he buried himself to the hilt, the last shuddering thrust stealing his breath. His body trembled, taut with pleasure, and a choked, wrecked sound escaped his throat as he spilled inside you—hot, thick, branding you.
For a fleeting moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breaths against your cheek, the weight of his body pressing you into the marble, your own limbs still trembling from the aftershocks of what he had done to you.
His lips brushed your skin—not a kiss, but something reverent, something he believed was devotion.
Then, a sharp gasp shattered the silence.
Three Vestal Virgins, sisters in faith, the girls who had walked beside you through womanhood, through duty, through sanctity, stood close, eyes wide, faces pale, their hands trembling as if they had witnessed the fire of Vesta itself extinguish before their very eyes.
You pushed against Caracalla’s chest, your heart lurching in terror, in shame, in something close to grief. But he did not move. He did not release you.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look at them—his grip on your waist tightening possessively, his body still pressed flush against yours, the evidence of your ruin still wet between your thighs.
And he smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer, but something horrible. Something knowing.
Because he knew what he was going to do to them.
They had seen too much.
And worse—they had looked at you as though you were defiled. As though you were disgusting. As though his holy gift had been anything but sacred. They would pay for that. He would make sure of it.
“Emperor—” You choked out, your voice barely more than a strangled breath as you shoved against his chest once more.
This time, he let you go.
The loss of his warmth should have felt like relief, but it was nothing of the sort. Cold horror settled into your bones, spreading through you like ink seeping into water. The weight of fate crashed upon you, cruel and suffocating. There was no undoing this. No running from it. By morning, you would be sentenced. By entombment, your life was already forfeit.
The realization struck like a blow, sending you stumbling toward them, the only ones who might understand, who might save you. But your feet tangled in the heavy folds of your robes, and you collapsed onto the marble with a sickening crack. The impact jarred through your knees, the cold stone biting into your flesh as you scrambled forward on trembling hands, crawling. The adrenaline of the situation soothed any pain you could’ve felt.
“Please,” you whispered, voice raw, desperate. “I didn’t… I could never… I—”
You couldn’t even form the words. You didn’t know what you were pleading for. Mercy? Silence? Forgiveness?
They stood unmoving. Their faces were pale, their expressions stricken, their hands clasped so tightly they trembled. They had always been your sisters, your kin, bound to you by sacred oaths. And yet, in that moment, they looked at you not with recognition, but with dread.
They knew what had happened. They knew what they had walked in on. But acknowledging it—bringing the truth into the open—was something else entirely.
To accuse you would be to condemn you. To accuse him would be to invite his wrath.
No one would believe them. No one would dare.
“Get up.” The words came sharp as a blade, slicing through the silence that had settled like a shroud.
You barely registered the voice at first, still kneeling on the cold marble, your limbs trembling, your mind struggling to stitch reality back together. But then a hand gripped your arm, yanking you upward with startling force.
“Go find some poor drunk man,” she commanded one of the other girls, voice low, desperate.
The weight of her meaning pressed against your ribs. A lie. A scapegoat. A way to twist the truth into something palatable for those who would judge. You opened your mouth to speak, to protest—to beg—but the words never came.
When you turned your head to search for him you found nothing. Caracalla was gone.
He had left as effortlessly as he had come, slipping into the night without a second glance. There was no hesitation in his escape. He had abandoned you in the wreckage of his sins.
Before you could move, the temple doors burst open.
His Imperial guards stormed in, the gleam of their armor flashing under the sacred fire’s glow. There were no accusations, no trial, no time to plead. The three women who had stood beside you for years, who had once sworn the same oaths, were seized with brutal efficiency. Hands wrenched behind their backs, prayers torn from their lips as they were dragged away.
You did nothing.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You didn’t so much as lift a finger as they were pulled from the temple and cast into the night.
THE NIGHT PASSED IN A BLUR.
You didn’t remember how you got back to your chambers. You didn’t remember if you had washed the sin from your skin, if you had tried to sleep, if you had prayed. Perhaps you had wandered the temple in a daze, or perhaps you had simply stood there, staring at the embers of the fire until the sky cracked open with the first light of dawn.
But morning came. And with it, judgment.
The remaining Vestals stood in silence at the edge of the dirt pit, their white robes ghostlike against the moist earth. Their faces were unreadable, their eyes avoiding yours.
You lifted your gaze.
Emperor Caracalla stood across from you, watching.
His face was unreadable, his sharp features betraying nothing. But it was his eyes that struck you the most—those cold, dull eyes, absent of guilt, absent of remorse.
And it was in that moment that you realized—you felt nothing either.
a/n: i thought about killing the reader but i chickened… thank you for reading and supporting akl my caracalla works 🫶🏼 ily babies.
synopsis | the last thing you expected when you signed up to be a counselor at camp pineway was to end up wrapped in just a towel staring in horror at the empty spot where you had placed your clothes right before your shower. luckily for you jason was ready to come to your aid…sort of…
warnings | 18+, drug usage, underage drinking/drug usage, bullying, sexual dialogue, bullying, loser x loser, cringe behavior, sexual content, making out, fingering, edging, jason and reader are hr's worst nightmare.
word count | 7.6k
a/n | i know hell of a summer isn't out till april but i'm already obsessed with jason and had to write a loser x loser scenario for him. i hate how long it took me to write this but hopefully it was worth it. @blueberrypancakesworld has some great jason fics y'all should check out as well!!! big thank you to my bestie @joeloverture for reading through this and helping me out/being super supportive while i worked on it. if y'all read for joel miller or just want some good fics pls go check out her stuff, she's my favorite person on the whole site.
A summer spent with spoiled rich kids who only got a job because their parents forced them sounds like your worst nightmare, and yet here you are living it. You’d grown up going to Camp Pineway, with mostly shitty memories of asshole kids and counselors who felt they weren’t paid enough to stop some bullies. You wanted to make a difference, you wanted to give those kids someone who would stand up for them, so you decided you’d come back and be a counselor for the summer. It was your summer break from college and you truly had nothing better to do in your shitty little town so it seemed like your best bet at having a social life.
When you’d arrived you knew you were fucked. A cherry red convertible with Chris Tian in the front seat was nothing but trouble, you’d heard from your younger sibling about how much of a dickhead he and his friends were and it seemed like they’d be your fellow counselors. You felt weirdly ashamed when you hopped out of your beat up old junker, one of the back handles had fallen off last winter and you never had enough money to fix it. You prayed silently that no one would notice how shitty your car was. Something about being around people like this made you feel like you were a self conscious high schooler again.
You felt relieved when you’d walked into the mess hall to be greeted by Jason Hochberg, he was two years older than you and had gone to school with you. He had been nerdy and awkward and somehow after all these years he still was. You bit your lip at the sight of him in his dorky outfit, his too long shorts and nerdy vest made you want to kiss him hard and stuff him in a locker all at the same time. You had always had a particular type, you could never verbalize it properly so you’d always told your friends your type was guys that would pop a boner if you shoved them too hard in the hallway. You’d softly cyber stalked his Instagram from time to time, mostly nature shots and movie reviews that got maybe 10 likes on a good day. The only photos he really had up of himself were in photo dumps from his years at Camp Pineway, he’d been a counselor there since he was eighteen and had been going for his whole childhood. He was clearly holding onto this place but you found it sort of endearing. You eyed the small bracelet stack on his arm, a couple of his favorites he’d received from campers over the years. You thought it was sweet that he held onto them.
You’d seen him at camp when you were a kid and that sort of kickstarted your little crush. He’d gotten bullied just like you but despite that he’d always stuck up for you whenever he’d see it happening. He didn’t mind taking a few blows or insults if it kept you out of harm's way. There was one incident you’d remembered for years.
It was your third year at camp and you were ten years old, Jason was twelve. You’d been cornered by a couple older girls, laughing at you, insulting your looks and your outfit. You had no idea what you did to provoke them, in reality you hadn’t done shit besides look like what they considered to be an easy target. They’d been harassing you for the entire week, making you scared to separate from your cabin mates. You’d been good about staying in a group but when you broke off to go to the bathroom you’d been cornered. They poked and prodded at you, making you feel smaller than you were. Tears brimmed your eyes, threatening to spill when Jason came in to save the day.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” He yelled, stomping over to the girls. He wasn’t very intimidating, he hadn’t hit his growth spurt and was standing at about 5 feet on a good day. He was dressed in cargo shorts and a Zelda t-shirt, if you looked up ‘nerd’ in the dictionary a picture of him would come up. You felt grateful to see him, no one had ever stuck up for you before.
“Fuck off, Jason,” one of the girls, Jessica, said aggressively. She turns to glare at him. She was a bit taller than him which didn’t help make him look anymore intimidating.
“She’s just a kid, she’s not bothering anyone. Go pick on someone else, Jess.” He stood there with his arms crossed, his brows furrowed in anger.
“Who? You, you’re an even easier target than pipsqueak over here,” Jess laughs.
“Yeah,” he nods, “Pick on me instead. Leave her alone.”
“Fine, we will.” Jess and the other girls turn around, closing in on Jason.
You look at him and mouth a quick ‘thank you’ before running off to find your cabin mates.
He’d saved your ass a couple more times that summer and towards the end of camp you’d used your arts and crafts time to make him a bracelet as a thank you. A perler bead bracelet made out of the camp's colors, white and green. You’d added a little tree shaped bead and a white heart as well. You gifted it to him shyly on the last day as everyone waited for their parents to arrive to pick them up. You shyly approached him, your little hands trembling as you tapped him on the shoulder. He stood alone, lost in his own thoughts.
“Jason?” You tapped him on the shoulder softly.
He turned around and smiled when he saw you, “Hey!
You push the bracelet towards him, “I uh…I made this for you…as a thank you for protecting me this summer.”
He smiles softly at you, taking the bracelet and slipping it onto his wrist where a few others sit. “Thank you, this is so nice. I’m glad I could help, you didn’t deserve to be bullied like that.”
Your ride pulls up, honking the horn. “Thank you for everything, Jason. I’ll see you next summer!” You hug him quickly before running off to your moms car.
Jason gives his spiel to everyone about expectations for the summer and for the weekend, you notice a few of the others on their phones and try to not roll your eyes. Once his speech is over he makes everyone turn their phones into a basket, you’re last in line and decide you’ll take your opportunity to speak to him. His face lights up when he sees you, “I thought I recognized your name. How’ve you been?” His toothy grin makes you melt.
You stand shyly with your hands behind your back, “I’ve been good…how about you? I mean you’re head counselor so clearly you’ve been doing pretty good.” You mentally facepalm at your own awkwardness.
“I’ve been good, yeah…lots of responsibility now. That’s just part of getting older I guess.”
You chew nervously at the dead skin on your lower lip, “You still looking out for the kids like me?”
“Always,” He smiles, “I still have that bracelet you made me y’know.” He holds up his wrist for you to see and you grab him, pulling it closer to get a good look at it.
“No shit…it’s sweet that you still have it.”
“How could I ever get rid of it? It’s a good reminder to look out for other people. You were really the first person to show me that kind of appreciation so it’s special to me,” he explains, his cheeks turning pink. He always blushed so easily.
“Hopefully you get more appreciation now, you really saved my ass that summer…and the next. Goddamn did camp suck without you there. I never really got that same courage you did to stand up for myself…”
He reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder comfortingly. “I only ended up with that courage after standing up for you, y’know. Who picked on you after Jessica left? She aged out of it when I did.”
“Some rich girl in my grade, you know how things go. When one Jessica leaves another one takes her place,” you joke.
He chuckles, moving his hand off your shoulder to push his hair back. “That’s always how it goes huh…”
Before you can respond Miley pokes her head back into the mess hall, “Why does she still have her phone? Don’t play favorites already!” Her whiny voice makes your eyes go wide in annoyance. You power down your phone and place it in the small basket Jason is holding. She scoffs and heads back out with the other counselors.
“Wow…there’s our Jessica I guess…”
“Looks like it…why don’t you get changed? I think everyone wants to swim,” Jason suggests.
“A swim sounds perfect right now, god. I’ll see you out there.” You give him a soft smile before heading to your car to grab your bags.
You lug them to the cabin you’ve been assigned to share with Demi and Miley, as soon as you open the door they go silent and look you up and down. “So someone’s the teacher's pet already…” Miley scoffs.
“Um…sorry if I made a bad impression already. We just knew each other as kids so we were catching up a bit, and got distracted. I’m not getting any special privileges if that's what you’re worried about.” You try to explain yourself but feel like you’re sinking into quicksand with every word that leaves your mouth. It feels like your childhood all over again.
“It’s not a big deal, just…interesting. Were you two like…science partners or something?” The way she says it sounds so condescending it makes you want to scream.
“Oh no, he’s older than me. We just went to camp together here.” You haul your suitcase onto the bed and start to unpack your clothes into the small dresser at the end of your bed. You lay out a black bikini top and a black boyshort style pair of bottoms. The two girls eye your choice of swimwear judgingly but keep their mouths shut about it…for now.
You all get changed into your swimsuits, Demi and Miley opting for straight bikinis over your slightly more modest attire, before heading out to the lake with everyone else. Jason had specifically told everyone no drinking or drugs but naturally no one cared enough to follow his orders. There’s a big cooler of assorted drinks sitting on the dock. Jason is seething with rage, sitting on his towel, nervously messing with the bracelets on his wrist. He’s dressed in a pair of dark green swim trunks and a Camp Pineway t-shirt. You drop your towel next to his, a pair of square shaped oversized sunglasses sitting atop your head. “Are you not going in?” You ask, sitting down next to him. You nab his sunscreen off his towel and start to apply it where you’re able to reach.
“Not yet. I told them to not bring alcohol and here they are with an entire cooler, are you fucking kidding me?” He rants. You eye the cooler of beer and liquor they brought with them, the pineapple White Claw calls out to you like the green goblin mask but you fight the urge to pop it open.
“They’re kids, they’re gonna be assholes. What’s more interesting to me is exactly how they got all that, none of ‘em are 21,” you say as you lather the sunscreen onto your arms and legs.
“They’re rich, probably paid a sibling or stranger for it…who knows…”
You hand the bottle of sunscreen to him, “Can you get my back? I can’t reach it.”
He stares down at the sunscreen bottle, reluctantly taking it from your hands. A shiver runs down your spine as he starts to apply the cold cream, rubbing it into your skin. A few of the other counselors look over, one of them wolf whistling, “Nice, Jason. Getting some action already huh?” It’s mocking and makes your cheeks start to heat up with embarrassment, Jason’s face turning bright red.
“You could only be so lucky, Bobby!” You call back.
“My first time touching a woman was a long time ago, I think this is Jason’s first,” Bobby teases.
Jason seethes, his touch becoming a bit rougher. You turn your head back to face him, “Don’t let it get to you, they’re just assholes. Their opinions don’t mean shit.”
“If this is what I have to hear all summer I might become Jason Voorhees,” he grumbles.
“Would I be your final girl?” You tease.
“Well if I had to die by someone’s hand here I guess I’d prefer it to be yours.”
You bite your lip and smile, “He never really dies y’know, you’d come back.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, “I’d just look grosser everytime.”
“But at least you’d get to go to space and fight Freddy Krueger, that doesn’t sound too bad to me.”
He laughs and shakes his head, “You’re very familiar with Friday the 13th huh?”
“That franchise is a guilty pleasure of mine, I can’t help it.”
“It’s cool that you know so much about it, I bet you’d kill at horror trivia.”
You smile shyly, “You have no idea.”
You get up and go over to the cooler, grabbing the White Claw you had wanted earlier. “Will you kill me if I have one drink?” You turn back to Jason with a pout.
“Is my final girl breaking her pure streak already?” He teases.
You lean down to whisper in his ear, feeling a bit bold. “As long as my virginity is still intact that’s what really matters, right?”
His face goes bright red and his body goes tense, he gulps. You want to kiss him so bad. He simply nods, “R-Right…”
You smirk and pop open the can, taking a seat next to him. His eyes flicker down to your exposed skin, it’s a view he’s looking forward to admiring for the rest of the summer. When he looks away you press the can to his exposed forearm and laughs when he jumps back. “Sorry…you’re kind of fun to mess with.” You had never really aged out of teasing and annoyance as a form of flirting, you’d spent years flicking people’s ears and throwing things at them to get their attention, it had mostly worked out for you.
“So I’ve been told…” He mutters.
You finish your drink and stand to go into the water, “You coming or what, Voorhees?”
His cheeks turn pink at the nickname, “In a minute, promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” You run off the dock and jump in with a smile. You shriek at the coldness of the water and smile as the other counselors laugh along with you. You start to swim around and get yourself used to the temperature of the water. You mostly keep to yourself as the other counselors play around, it’s definitely a weird feeling to be older than the rest of them. You’re enjoying yourself as you see Jason approaching the end of the dock. You swim over to him, resting your arms on the dock as you prop yourself up.
“Coming in?”
“Maybe…is it cold?” He asks. He takes a seat at the end of the dock, dipping his feet into the water. He hisses at the cold. “How are you swimming this?”
“My body got used to it, c’mon join me. I’m lonely…” You pout playfully.
“You don’t want to mingle with them?” He motions to the other counselors.
“I’m scared they’re gonna ask if I have sigma rizz.”
His brows furrowed in confusion, “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know but I heard my sibling say it the other day and felt so very old.”
“I’ll come in and save you, hold on,” He groans. He slowly lowers himself into the water, the t-shirt still on. He grits his teeth at the cold as he sinks in.
The two of you stay near the docks, observing the other counselors. Bobby sits comfortably on an inflatable with a joint perched between his fingers, taking a drag every now and then. Jason shakes his head in anger, “They brought weed too? Are you fucking kidding me?” For a minute part of you wonders if you’ve somehow snuck into a purgatory designed to torture Jason for eternity.
You do your best to calm him, “There’s what like…ten of them? It’ll be gone before the weekend is even over, it’ll be fine. This first night is supposed to be for everyone to hang out and get to know each other right? Just let them all…chill and maybe they won’t be so rude the rest of the summer.”
“If I don’t enforce it now they won’t respect me for the rest of the summer. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for years,” Jason replies, sounding annoyed.
“I’m shocked you’re against smoking, I mean you kind of give off stoner vibes…at least your Instagram did.” As soon as you say it you realize you slipped up.
“You’ve seen my Instagram?”
You feel your face heat up, “I-It came up on my explore page after I applied here. You know how Instagram and Facebook are, I could say the word ‘cookie’ and get like a million Crumbl ads after. I-I saw you and got curious…I remembered you from camp and High School. It wasn’t like I was stalking your page or anything.” The word vomit does nothing to help your case, you’ve been caught red handed.
“You looked through all my posts though? Didn’t you?” He cocks an eyebrow at you.
“Don’t make it weird! I was curious…I do it with everyone from my past if their stuff comes up, hell I go through my own account sometimes!”
“I think you’re the one making it weird.”
“Be nice or I’ll get the teenagers to bully you again,” you threaten.
He rolls his eyes and splashes you with a laugh. You gasp and recoil, you wipe the water from your face and splash him back. It devolves quite quickly into a childish splash fight, the both of you laughing hard. “Truce! Truce!” He yells, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Fineeeeee.”
The other counselors look at the two of you in slight annoyance, it’s so clear to everyone that you’re already his favorite and it pisses them off.
“Is that like…appropriate for him to be so close to them like that?” Miley nudges Demi.
“I don’t know but it’s annoying, they’re gonna get special treatment the whole summer for sucking up to that loser. What kind of guy still works as a counselor when he’s like 30?”
“He’s only like 24, don’t be dramatic,” Shannon says.
“Are you defending him?” Miley asks in disgust.
“The only thing I’m defending him against is the elderly allegations,” Shannon jokes.
Miley rolls her eyes and turns back to Demi, “We should teach them a lesson. Let them know what everyone else thinks of suck ups like them.”
“Yeah? What are you thinking?” Demi asks, leaning her head down for Miley to whisper to her.
The two girls look over at you and Jason and nod.
“Hey, put that out! The rules very clearly said no drugs or alcohol, what the hell were you thinking bringing weed to a summer camp?” Jason yells at Bobby.
Bobby rolls his eyes, “You want me to put it out? Where? On the inflatable?” He scoffs.
“J-Just get rid of it and whatever other contraband you got, okay! We don’t need some kid getting into your stash and greening out!”
You bite back a smile as Jason rants. “Just make sure it’s gone before the kids show up. I’m sure you can manage that right, Bobby?”
Jason looks back at you like you’ve betrayed him, “What the hell are you doing? I’m in charge.”
“Jason, just trust me on this one, okay? They’ll get rid of it before the kids get here, I’ll make sure of it.”
Jason groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, “If it’s not I’ll have your ass for it.”
You smirk at the accidental innuendo, “It’ll be gone,” you turn to look back at Bobby as he takes another hit, “Right, Bobby?”
He salutes you, “Yes ma’am!”
You turn back to face Jason, giggling slightly. “See, it’ll be gone. Promise.”
As the sun starts to go down everyone heads back to their cabins to grab some clothes to change into, before heading to the showers. You’re one of the last to make it to the showers and you leave your clothes in a pile on the bench to change into after. You step into a stall and pull off your swimsuit, hanging it over the door to dry as you turn on the water. Your face scrunches up in annoyance as the cold water hits your skin. You step as far away from the water as you can while still staying in the stall until the water heats up. Once it heats up you take your time scrubbing yourself down, massassing your shampoo into your scalp. You turn off the water and wrap your towel around yourself, stepping out of the stall. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you look down at the bench, your clothes are gone. You look around the locker room, it’s empty except for you. You open the lockers, searching each and every locker for your clothes. You go back to your stall to see if your swimsuit is there but it’s missing as well. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…” You mutter. Your cheeks heat up with embarrassment, you can’t believe it. You’re a grown ass adult getting bullied by teenagers…
While you were in the shower Miley and Demi put their plan into motion, they’d waited for the rest of the girls to leave and stole your swimsuit from the top of your stall door, yanking it down while you were distracted. They’d swiped up your clothes and ran off with them as well, right back to your cabin. They had been oh so kind as to leave your towel untouched however. Once they stashed your clothes Demi had gone off to Jason's cabin.
He opened the door while towel drying his hair, “Oh, Demi. What’s up?”
She explains that you’re having some issues with something in the showers and need his help.
His pale cheeks turn pink as she explains, “What does she need help with?”
“She didn’t say, but she said she really needed you to come help her so…”
“Uh, okay. I-I’ll be up there in a few.” He shuts the door and throws his towel down, quickly brushing his hair and slipping his crocs on.
You’re pacing in the locker room, chewing nervously at your thumbnail when there’s a knock on the door. “Uh, hey. Demi said you needed some help, is everything alright?”
You walk towards the door, groaning with your head in your hands. “My clothes…” you sigh, “my clothes are fucking gone. I-I think Demi took ‘em.”
His eyes go wide, “Can I come in?”
“I mean…I’m in just a towel so…”
He pinches the bridge of his nose trying to think, “Fuck, okay. Um, I’ll go grab your clothes. Stay here.”
“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere…” You mumble as you hear his footsteps getting quieter.
Jason runs off to the nurses office, it takes him a few minutes to figure out what key on his key ring fits but he gets it eventually. He grabs a camp t-shirt and black shorts they keep as extras just in case and heads back to the locker room. His mind is racing the whole jog back, he’s never had to deal with something like this before. Bullying and pranks between campers was normal, he was used to handling it, but between counselors? He felt pretty out of his depth. He stops his hand when he reaches for the door handle that leads to the locker room, he makes a fist and knocks instead. “I uh…I got you some clothes. There wasn’t any underwear I could get but-”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.” You reach a hand out and take the clothes from him, dropping your towel and slipping the clothes on. The shorts hang low on your hips and the t-shirt hangs slightly off your shoulder. You pick your towel back up to dry your hair and open the door for Jason. “You can come in now.”
He cautiously steps into the locker room, he’s chewing nervously at his lower lip. “So you think Demi took your clothes?”
You nod, placing your hands on your hips. “Her and Miley have been acting really weird since we met. Miley already accused you of playing favorites with me…in the cabin she called me ‘teacher’s pet.’ Do you think she got Demi in on some plan to prank me?”
“It’s definitely possible,” he nervously plays with the bracelets on his wrist. “It just seems a little extreme considering all you’ve done is get on their nerves.”
“Girls are more cutthroat than you’d think, trust me,” you say bluntly.
Jason nods, “Why don’t I walk you back to your cabin and I’ll make sure you get your clothes back, okay?”
“Thanks, Voorhees,” you use his nickname again. You slip on your slides, grateful that they had at least left those for you.
He shakes his head as he holds the door open for you, “Are you gonna call me that all summer?”
You beam up at him, clasping your hands behind your back, “Maybe.”
“Well I guess it’s not the worst thing I’ve been called…” He clicks on his flash light and the two of you start the walk to the cabins.
“Did you get hazed when you started as a counselor?” You ask as you walk next to him.
“Yeah, kind of. It’s different for guys I guess, not as calculated. The worst I got was a wedgie every now and then,” he grimaces at the memory, “I didn’t have my clothes stolen or anything like that.”
You giggle and nod, “Guess I really pissed them off then.”
“Or they’re just really mean.”
You chuckle, “That is definitely a possibility.”
As you walk Jason can’t help but admire you. He loves how the shirt hangs off your shoulder, it falls nicely over the slope of your breasts, your nipples visible through the thin fabric. You use one hand to keep the shorts held up, they hang dangerously low on your hips and your lack of underwear does nothing to help you feel secure. You smell nice, slightly like lavender.
“What’s kept you coming back to camp every year?”
Your question is one Jason has gotten countless times, it’s one that opens up a bottomless pit in his stomach. “I just like it here. I love being in nature and being able to mentor the kids…Pineway just feels like a second home to me.” He’s also terrified of having to move on and grow up but he’d never say that out loud.
“Y’know I think you’d make a good park ranger. I could see you at one of the national parks, maybe doing classes for the kids, helping run day camps. It's perfect for you.”
He looks down and blushes, “You think so?”
You move a little closer to him, your arms brushing against one another. “Yeah, it’d be a good fit for you. You should really think about it.”
“Maybe I will…thank you.”
You reach the cabin, stepping carefully onto the porch. You can hear Demi and Miley talking inside. You slowly open the door, Jason following you inside. You stay close to him, a bit cautious of the two girls now. They turn to look at the two of you and Miley can’t help but laugh, “Cute clothes.”
You open your mouth to retort but Jason places a hand on your shoulder and shakes his head.
“This isn’t funny, I could report you two for harassment and stealing. Where’d you put her clothes?” Jason asks, putting on a serious tone. He stands there angrily, glaring at the girls.
“Why would we have her clothes?” Demi snarks.
“I’m not kidding Demi, this is wildly inappropriate. Hazing, bullying, harassment, whatever you want to call this shit won’t be tolerated.” Jason's hands curl into fists.
The two girls look at each other and burst into laughter, “S-Sorry, it’s so hard to take you seriously when your hands are so…y’know!” Miley laughs through tears.
Jason scowls, “Hey! I’m not fucking around! Give her back her goddamn clothes.” His anger is slightly more intimidating this time.
Miley groans and pulls your clothes out from under her bed. She tosses them to you and you frantically check to make sure all of it is there. “There. Happy now? Take a fucking joke.”
Your brows furrow, “Where the hell is my underwear?”
The two girls erupt into laughter once again, there’s tears streaming down their cheeks as they hold their stomachs in laughter. You and Jason stand there uncomfortably until they calm down. “I’d check the flag pole if I was you,” sneers Demi.
Your face falls and it feels like your stomach has dropped out of your body, you can’t pick your eyes up from the floor. You can feel your breathing begin to grow ragged as you realize what they’ve done. Your whole body feels warm with embarrassment. You’ve been humiliated plenty of times in your life but this takes the cake for the worst. You drop your clothes and run out of the cabin.
Jason points at the girls, “You’re both in a lot of fucking trouble when I get back.” He runs outside after you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. He pulls you into his chest as you begin to cry. He rubs your back and whispers softly to try and calm you down. “It’s gonna be okay, you won’t have to spend another second alone with them for the rest of the summer and they’re on probation for the rest of the summer, okay? Seriously, one more incident and they’re out. I’m calling the camp director in the morning.” As he holds you he looks over at the nearby flag pole that sits in the middle of the cabins. Where the flag once was now waves a smaller white piece of cloth. He immediately knows what it is. He’s quite possibly the angriest he’s ever been in his life, but for your sake he calms himself. “I’m gonna get your underwear down. I’ll be right back.” He runs over to the flagpole, hoisting your underwear down as quickly as possible so no one will see. He stuffs your underwear into his pocket and puts the flag back up.
“Come on, you’re going to my cabin. I’ll go get your stuff in a bit,” Jason wraps his arm around you and starts to lead you to his cabin. One of the perks of being head counselor is that he doesn’t have to share with everyone else. He leads you to the small cabin and you get comfortable on one of the bunks, curling into yourself and crying softly. He sits on the bed, rubbing your back comfortingly. “They’re just a bunch of assholes, you don’t deserve this. They went way too far.”
“I didn’t even do anything,” You whine. You feel like a kid again, you want to quit and go home but you know you can’t.
“I know. It’s stupid, they’re stupid. I’ve got you, okay? I’ll switch your cabin assignment, get you away from them. But at least for tonight you’re with me. I’m gonna go get your stuff.” He pats your back and stands, heading for the door.
On the short walk to your cabin he tries to calm himself, he knows better than to blow up at Miley and Demi but goddammit would he love to. He slips in the door, making his way to your bunk, gathering your things quickly. “What are you doing with her shit?” Miley asks, sitting up on her bunk.
“Taking it to my cabin. You two can’t be trusted near her.”
“I thought male and female counselors weren’t allowed to-”
Jason cuts Demi off, “This is an exception. It’s just for tonight. You’ll room with someone else starting tomorrow, probably Shannon.” He tries to keep the conversation short, if he gets a chance to blow up he will.
“You just wanna get in her pants…” Miley mumbles.
“Shut the fuck up. I could call your parents and tell them what you’ve done, I promise you no amount of money will stop me from making sure you’re both punished for what you did. Grow the fuck up. You both go to college this fall right?”
They nod.
“Then act like it. You do this shit in college and you don’t just get suspended. You get kicked out. I’m sure mommy and daddy will offer a generous donation to save your ass but it can only happen so many times before they decide to stop paying up. I don’t want another problem from either one of you this whole summer, got it?” Jason has never had to yell at anyone like this the entire time he’s worked at the camp, he’s seething. If he could find replacements for the two on such short notice he’d have them packing by midnight.
The two girls nod shamefully, “G-Got it…”
“Good.” He gathers the rest of your things and carries them back to his cabin. You help him bring them inside and open up your suitcase to change. You don’t want to put on the clothes you’d originally picked out, they feel tainted now. You decide on an old band t-shirt and some old flannel pajama shorts you’d bought years ago.
“Can you uh…turn around? I really don’t want to walk all the way back to the showers to change.” You ask shyly, holding up your clothes.
Jason turns around quickly, even going as far as covering his eyes, “Just let me know when you’re decent.”
You strip off the clothes he’d given you earlier and trade them for your own. “You can turn around now.”
He turns back around with his eyes still covered and you roll your eyes. You stroll up to him and pull his hands off his eyes, “You’re such a dork.” He smiles down at you, for a second he feels like he’s in one of those cheesy rom coms he secretly watches.
“It doesn’t sound so mean when you say it,” he chuckles.
“Good. It should sound like a compliment, I like dorks. You’re so yourself without being ashamed of it, I like it.” For a moment you both stare at one another, admiring the features of your faces up close. You notice his beauty marks that litter his cheeks, you admire the gaps in his teeth. He’s so beautiful as he is.
He moves his hands to your waist experimentally. His touches, as innocent as they are, make your body feel as if it’s been set ablaze. You want him bad.
“You were my hero again today, maybe instead of a park ranger you could consider superhero as your career,” you joke. He runs his thumb up and down your side, smiling softly.
“Maybe you should stop getting yourself into trouble and I won’t have to come save you.”
“Isn’t that what a final girl is supposed to do?” You tease, referencing your earlier conversation.
“I suppose. But, I still haven’t seen you trip over nothing while running. You broke the rules a little earlier by having that drink y’know.” His grip on your waist tightens, he pulls you a bit closer to him.
“Are you gonna punish me for it, Mr. Voorhees?” You internally cringe at yourself and pray to the universe that he will somehow find that sexy.
“Maybe I will.”
He leans in and kisses you softly, pulling your body flush against his as he does. What starts off innocent pretty quickly picks up steam. It’s been a long time since you’ve so much as even kissed someone, you’re pretty pent up. Your hands find their way into his hair as you pull him closer to you, you want him as close as humanly possible. When his hand starts to slide up your shirt you know you want to be even closer. He squeezes your breast and rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He laughs when you pull away from the kiss to whine pathetically. You didn’t know he had this in him. You tug at his hair and smirk when he whimpers. You can see what this is turning into, tit for tat. He makes you whine, you make him whimper. You do whatever you can to elicit a sweet sound from one another. Eventually you’re able to shove him down onto the couch. He sits with his head against the back of the couch, his legs spread. You bite your lip and move to stand between his legs. He leans forward and lifts your shirt, starting to kiss your stomach and hips.
“Y’know, I might’ve lied about some of my final girl qualifications,” you laugh, looking down at him.
“Yeah? Like what?”
“I’m not a virgin…”
He scoffs, “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”
You roll your eyes and playfully whack the top of his head, “Don’t be a dick.”
He pulls you into his lap and pulls off your shirt, starting to kiss your neck. He turns you around in his lap so that your back is against his chest. He spreads your legs apart and starts to tease you over your shorts. You melt into his touch, whining and moaning softly. You’re practically putty in his hands. You can feel him pressed against your back, he’s painfully hard. You wanna touch him but you’re too caught up in what he’s doing to you. “We shouldn’t be doing this, think about how much trouble I’d get in if anyone found out,” Jason mutters as he shoves his hand down your panties. He starts to massage your clit and you’re practically melting.
“N-No one’ll find out…promise…please just…” You can barely form a sentence, this is the last thing you would’ve expected from him. You had imagined a messy makeout session, a few minutes of grinding before he loses control and comes in his pants.
“Please what? What do you need?” He sounds completely calm and collected, it’s like he’s maintaining his composure just to fuck with you.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You know what I need! Goddammit, just-”
He cuts you off by tugging down your shorts and underwear, your cunt exposed to the cool air of the cabin. He hooks his ankles around yours, keeping your legs spread for him. He looks down at your cunt and smiles, resting his head on your shoulder. He runs his finger up your slit, spreading your lips in the process. You whine, your hips bucking up. “Is this what you want?” He raises his fingers to your mouth, tapping your bottom lip for you to open up. You slowly open your mouth and he slides his fingers in. He doesn’t even tell you what to do, you start to suck on his fingers. He pulls them away once he’s satisfied and moves his hand back down to your cunt. He spreads you open against, watching your head tilt back as he sinks two fingers into your depth. He smirks when he hears your soft whimpers. He starts to slowly pump his fingers inside of you, “If you keep making these pretty little noises I might have to keep you in here with me all summer.”
“Please…fuck…just have me look pretty and play with me, better than the actual job,” you mumble, turning to look at him. You lean down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, enjoying the way your noses knock against one another. You’ve been admiring his nose all day, fighting the urge to run a finger down the slope. You wonder how it would feel against your clit, his tongue buried deep inside of you.
“It’d be nice to have a pretty little stress toy like you in my cabin to come back to after a long day, these motherfuckers are gonna give me greys before I turn 30.” You get a look on your face like you’re about to make a snide comment and Jason shuts it down by massaging your clit. A moan spills out of your lips instead.
“You figured out how to handle me that quick?”
He rolls his eyes and starts to kiss your neck, he takes his time finding all the spots that make you whine extra loud. He nibbles here and there but knows better than to leave marks, at least in such visible places. He picks up the pace as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. He loves how you whimper his name, pleading for more, pleading for his cock. “I didn’t pack condoms, but maybe if you’re good you can have my tongue later.”
You move your head to the side, giving him more access to your neck. “And if I’m bad?”
“Then you can try to get yourself off on my thigh while you jack me off.”
“Oh fuck me…” you mumble, your head rolling back.
He moves his mouth to your breasts, starting to bite and suck at the sensitive flesh of your nipples. “Already told you I can’t do that yet. Gotta be patient, gotta be good, ‘kay?”
You jut out your bottom lip, pouting, and nod. “‘Kay…”
He nips at your nipple and you yelp, “Good.” He leans down and spits on your clit, massaging it into your clit with his thumb. He speeds up his motions, trying harder and harder to get you what you want. “You wanna make a mess for me, don’t you? If you get it on the couch you’re licking it up. Better pray none of it even hits the floor…” This morning you could’ve never imagined he had it in him to speak to you like this, his coy attitude was just a red herring for what was to come. He’s working his fingers inside of you, curling them just right to hit the spot. Your eyes screw shut as you mumble pathetically, “Oh fuck Jason…g-god…fuck please make me come, please…wanna make a mess for you…”
Just as he’s about to take you over the edge there’s a knock at the door. You both freeze and he slaps a hand over your mouth. Never in his life has he been so grateful for the window coverings in the cabin.
“Hey! Jason, is she in there? I heard what happened, I just want to make sure y’all are gonna eat.” It’s Chris. God you want to kill him right now.
Jason smirks, “I’ll be out in a minute. Just making sure she’s okay.”
“Well…uh, see you in the mess hall then!” You hear his footsteps quiet down.
You and Jason look at each other and erupt into giggles. “You wanna play a game with me, final girl?”
“Are you impersonating Jigsaw now too? I think you’re getting your franchises mixed up.”
He rolls his eyes, “God you’re more of a nerd than me. You should feel lucky you weren’t wearing that underwear when they hoisted them up the flagpole.”
You slap his chest, “Hey! Asshole! I’m not like that bitch Cindy in Sleepaway Camp III, you wouldn’t let them do that to me.”
He laughs, kissing you again, “Nerd.”
“You can’t call me a nerd when your fingers are inside me.”
He pulls his fingers out of you and flicks your clit, causing you to yelp. “Is that better nerd?”
You roll your eyes and he brings his fingers to your lips, “Go on, clean me up.” You suck your slick off his fingers. He pulls them out of your mouth once he’s satisfied and wipes your saliva on your cheek. You narrow your eyes at him playfully.
“You’re not gonna finish me off? I was so close…” You pout.
“That’s the game. Sit through dinner without being a whiny little brat and I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll make sure you come as many times as you want tonight, just behave during dinner. Think you can do that?” He explains.
You groan, “Fineeeee. But you owe me a lot of orgasms, and I mean a lot. It’s fucked up to leave a girl hanging like that.”
“I’m blue balling myself too.” He grabs your hand and presses it against his shorts, you can feel just how hard he is through his shorts. “We both have to behave during dinner, it’s an even playing field.”
You smirk, “Deal. How do you plan to hide that though?”
“I’ll think of awful things until it goes away.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Does that really work.”
“Sometimes.”
You squeeze him through his shorts before standing to get redressed, “You better pray it does tonight because I’ll be across the table thinking about how your nose would feel against my clit after dinner.”
“You’re HR’s worst nightmare…” He mumbles, watching as you redress.
“You’re the one who kissed me, I don’t wanna hear it. I’ll keep my mouth shut as long as you do the same,” you say as you pull your shirt over your head,
“Deal.” He gets up from the couch and readjusts himself through his shorts.
You both share a mirror, trying to fix your hair and doing everything possible to make it less obvious that you two were just going at it. Once you’re satisfied you head for the door. As soon as you step out of the door he slaps your ass, causing you to yelp and jump. “Prick!”
summary. Not even the holiest temple of the empire, nor its towering walls, nor the sanctity of Roman faith could shield your sacred oath from the reach of Emperor Caracalla.
word count. 5.6k
warnings. dark themes. religious themes/guilt. dub-con. fingering (f). vaginal intercourse. unprotected sex (please use protection if u don’t want a baby or an sti). creampie. talks about first times. blink and you’ll miss the sti mention. death through live entombment. historically inaccurate (dont look at me) deprecating language towards concubines i’m sorry. fem!reader. i didn’t provide much physical description just small breast. this may touch topics bigger than this fic and the whole movie, please don’t take anything seriously. shame, shame and shame because you can’t take the catholic school out of the girl — so in roman faith it maybe not shame oops. english isn’t my first language.
a/n. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛. this is my first time writing smut and i have NO experience at all so expect whatever. caracalla gives small dick energy but it’s fine. please babes read the warnings i don’t want to trigger anyone, stay safe 🫶🏼 ily all.
THE FIRE ALMOST LICKED YOUR FACE AS YOU LEANED IN, STRETCHING TO RELIGHT ONE OF THE CANDLES THAT HAD GONE OUT.
The heat pressed against your skin, and for a fleeting moment, you reached up to touch the veil covering your face, half-expecting to find it scorched, melted away like wax. Should it be taken as a sign? The goddess often spoke in symbols, in whispers of smoke and flickering flames, guiding the six Vestals entrusted with keeping the sacred fire alive.
But you had never felt the goddess close.
Not once.
The thought sat heavy in the back of your mind, an ache you rarely allowed yourself to acknowledge. If the gods had abandoned you, if they had never truly called you to this fate, what did that mean? The stories suggested that those forsaken by their divinities had only one path left— painful death. You don’t fear death, but if you were left by your own devices, there’s only a few punishments you would go through if the slightest sight of what’s inside shows.
A rustling of fabric broke your thoughts.
“We should take turns,” said Aurelia, her voice soft, hesitant.
You turned to her, watching as she fidgeted with the delicate folds of her veil. Aurelia was the embodiment of faith, the very vision of purity and devotion—never nervous, never uncertain. And yet, here she stood before you, hands trembling slightly, her eyes darting away as if afraid to meet yours.
You studied her for a long moment, searching for answers in the quiet between you.
“Is something wrong?” you finally asked.
She hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough for the flickering firelight to cast shadows across her face.
“I—I’m tired,” she murmured.
It was a lie. You could hear it in the slight hitch of her breath, see it in the way her fingers twisted around the fabric of her robes.
Your own eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths settling over you.
Something was wrong.
But you let it pass, unfortunately.
YOUR FOOTSTEPS WERE DELICATE, SOFTENED BY THE CRACKLING HUM OF THE FIRE.
Thoughts swirled in your mind, feelings of uneasiness crawling through your spine as you pondered why Aurelia had seemed so desperate to escape. There was a strange weight in your stomach, an unsettling sense that perhaps you were being excluded, left alone in this sacred space. The temple had always been a place of solace, yet tonight it felt foreign, far and almost suffocating. You had never been alone here before—nor had you ever felt quite so distant from the others.
It wasn’t that you lacked a belief in the gods, nor were you entirely devoid of grace, but somehow your spirit always felt like it existed on the outskirts of devotion. The other girls were steadfast, their faith blooming like a garden of unyielding confidence. And you, in comparison, were a flicker—a flame too fragile and small to catch the attention of the divine. People might have called you fortunate, chosen to safeguard the sacred fire, but months of solitude had quietly eroded any certainty you had about your own place within the temple walls. Your heart grew heavy with doubt in your sanctity and in your purpose.
The day the twin Emperors visited, it all seemed to shift. Geta, calm and composed, held himself with some dignity, though there was a certain sharpness in his gaze, a warning to those who dared fall short. His presence, though commanding, was distant. But Caracalla… Caracalla was something else entirely. His recklessness set the air on fire, he had a wild energy. He wore a mischievous smile that stirred something primal in your chest, making your pulse quicken, your breath falter.
He approached you, too close, too boldly. His ring-clad fingers danced with ease along the hem of your veil, grazing the curve of your shoulder. It was the smallest of touches, but it burned—seared its way into your skin. And when your eyes met his, when you stupidly allowed your gaze to linger, something in his expression shifted. It was no longer a smile, but something darker, something dangerous. You couldn’t name it then, but it made a fire bloom deep in your core, a warmth that spread in waves through your veins. The flame expanded when his knuckles brushed your cheekbone. His smile deepened, his eyes turning as dark as the night sky. And in the naïveté of your mind, you dared to think it was the gods themselves drawing near. You foolishly believed they had come to speak to you.
But then, with a slap of his hand, Geta’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, and everything turned to fog. After that, you remembered nothing.
Now, as your name echoed softly through the blurred silence, you turned, your breath catching in your throat. The world around you felt uncertain, hazy, as though you had crossed into a realm where nothing was meant to happen, and yet everything was. Confusion poured down your face, but still, you recognized him—Caracalla.
His energy, raw and untamed, circled you, wrapping around your mind and heart in a dizzying blur. There was a part of you that wanted to pull away, to retreat into the quiet sanctity of the temple, to places only you knew, to remind yourself of the sacredness you were meant to uphold. But that part of you was drowned out by an unspoken call that urged you forward, into the chaos he brought.
And then, with a suddenness that took your breath away, he was there. His hand on your waist, pressing you against the cold stone, and all your thoughts scattered. Despite his smaller stature, Caracalla’s force was overwhelming, driven by a newfound force. His presence swallowed you whole, leaving no room for thought, no space to resist.
“Aren’t you a little Godsend?” His voice was low, mocking. “Rome’s favorite Vestal… so pure, so untouchable.” His smile widened, darkening his features.
Caracalla’s laughter, dark and sardonic, hummed against your ear. His voice was a ripple in the air, the sound of something so dangerous yet tantalizing. Your body froze, whether it was fear or desire you couldn’t know. The line between the two blurred as the pleasures of the flesh—foreign, forbidden—saturated your senses. His touch was invasive. You had never wanted to be touched like this, you didn’t know you could. Your heart hammered, and in the dimness of your mind, you begged the Gods to turn their eyes away, to you, to let the sacred fire burn out in atonement for your sins, for the betrayal of your vow. The Gods could blind themselves to your transgression, your weakness, your broken oath. Perhaps this was your punishment.
His fingers, driven by a reckless hunger, sought your center—awkward, eager, and almost feral in their pursuit. You fought the urge to speak—to ask him, with a trembling voice, if he knew what he was doing. But that would be dangerous. Too dangerous. His state only weighed your unholiness further. Buried beneath 6-feet of dirt. It made your breath heavy, it made your mind turn into a downward spiral.
Your breath quickened, a strange weight pressing on your chest. And then, when his fingers finally found their target, you jolted against him involuntarily, as if the air itself had shifted in your lungs. He kissed your neck, a soft graze of lips against your skin, and you had no choice but to melt into him, as though your body had betrayed you too. His rings scraped your sensitive flesh, an almost mocking reminder of the weight of his power over you.
The delicate, sacred space you had once held in reverence was slipping away, slipping into his hands. The center that had been yours alone, the place where no man had ever tread, was now violated—corrupted by him. And everything else, your dignity, your faith, your sanctity, would follow. It would all be his.
Caracalla was finding momentary sanity in the action.
“You’re a gift sent from the Gods,” he whispered against your ear, his words dripping with a twisted promise, like a threat beneath honeyed temptation. The sound of your breath—choked, gasped—was foreign to you, a new thing emerging from your throat. It was a moan, or something close to it, unrecognizable and raw.
His movements were unrefined, a desperate rhythm against your clit, slick with the evidence of his intrusion. The sensation sent waves of confusion and discomfort through you. You arched your back, instinctively attempting to distance yourself from the foreign touch. But it was a new sensation, one that both terrified and confused you. It was unlike anything you had ever felt—the same unnamable feeling you had experienced the first time he dared touch your face, but brutal and more suffocating. Words and knowledge were smaller than that.
When his fingers trailed along your slit, his cold rings grazing your clit, your body reacted violently—your knees buckled beneath you. You leaned forward, struggling to keep your balance, only for your elbows to crash against the unforgiving cold marble. Caracalla was quick, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you upright, guiding your trembling body back in position. His wet hand slid to the side of your face, squeezing it roughly against the marble.
“Stand still. Don’t be stupid,” he growled, frustration creeping into his voice. His short fuse was infamous amongst the Vestals. You could feel it in the harshness of his grip, the sharp edge of his command.
His hand returned to the warmth between your thighs, this time tracing soft, deliberate circles around your entrance, playing, teasing. The cool bite of his rings brushed against your clit, drawing another moan from your lips—this one unrestrained, wanton. Caracalla pressed closer, his body molding against yours, his hardness unmistakable against the curve of your ass. Yet thought itself felt impossible, dissolving into the heat pooling in your core as his finger finally entered you, finding the place that was once sacred.
For a fleeting moment, the sensation was so wholly consuming, so unlike anything you had ever known, that you almost believed the Gods were speaking through him. But then a broken sob escaped your throat, and as your gaze flickered downward, reality sharpened. His fingers lay claim to your most untainted place, and you knew—this was no divine intervention.
It was close to a secure and painful death, buried alive. But you couldn’t be selfless enough to try and make him stop.
A whimper escaped as he pushed another finger inside, stretching you open, slow and unyielding. The sensation was a paradox—pain and pleasure entwined, like pressing against the sting of a wound, knowing it would hurt and yet seeking it still. Your walls fluttered around him, instinctively resisting, and he exhaled a quiet, satisfied hum.
“Would you like a taste?” he whispered, his lips grazing your cheek.
Before you could comprehend what he meant, he pressed his slick fingers against your mouth, parting your lips with ease. The taste was unfamiliar, strange, yet not unpleasant. “Suck them,” he commanded, and you obeyed—what else could you have done?
A pleased sound rumbled from his throat as your tongue hesitantly curled around his fingers. The response was immediate. Your body arched, pressing into him, seeking the return of his touch before you could even think to deny yourself.
As if he could read your mind, he obliged. But this time, there was no patience. He thrust his fingers back inside, deeper, rougher, as if he had only been toying with you before. You had no way of knowing. No way of understanding. There was only the rhythm of his fingers, disappearing into your slick heat, withdrawing just enough to tease before plunging back into your warmth.
He barely felt any pleasure from the moans, groans, or breathless cries of his concubines. Their sounds were rehearsed, predictable. It was a performance meant to appease him, to convince him of his own prowess. They existed to stroke the Emperor’s ego, not to satiate his desires. And so, more often than not, he silenced them—pushing their faces into silken pillows, muttering sharp commands that reduced them to nothing but warm, pliant flesh beneath him.
But this was different.
Your sounds were uncertain, trembling on your lips because you understood the weight of this sin. Your moans were small, caught in your throat, untrained. There was no calculation behind them, no attempt to please him, no knowledge of how to. You were real. And that alone was enough to undo him.
“Caracalla,” you breathed, voice breaking as his short but thick fingers curled inside you, coaxing a sharp arch from your spine. Your hands grasping at the cold marble as your knees threatened to buckle once more. The unyielding surface bruised the delicate skin of your arms, but you barely registered it beneath the slow, torturous drag of his fingers within you.
He kept his pace unhurried, savoring each tremor that rippled through you. He was impossibly hard, grinding against you in reckless, languid movements. And then, he laughed—soft, breathless, as if delighting in a private, nasty joke.
He was having the sweetest thing in the empire. Not even his brother could claim such a gift. To take a Vestal, to be chosen by the Gods themselves to desecrate something so holy—there was no greater privilege. No greater proof of his favor.
But you felt only the weight of abandonment.
His hand ghosted over the curve of your waist, sliding upward until his fingers found the swell of your breast, still covered in soft linen. He squeezed, possessive, branding bruises into the tender skin beneath the fabric.
The fire that had settled deep in your core spread, licking at every inch of your skin, turning your clothes damp with sweat. Strands of hair clung to your fevered face, the scent of sweat and something faintly sweet lingering in the air. You swallowed hard, shame clawing its way up your throat as the unbearable sensation built between your thighs.
“I think I need to pee—” you whimpered, mortified by the confession. It was unbearable, a pressure unlike anything you had ever known, twisting deep inside you.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek—brief, careless, lacking tenderness. A hollow gesture of gratitude beneath the watchful eyes of the Gods. He would play his part, and so he continued, his touch growing rougher, more insistent. The hard edges of his rings grazed your clit in passing, a clash of warmth and cold, of flesh and metal, sending a sharp tremor through your body.
You could not name this feeling. It was neither fear nor excitement, yet it curled deep inside you, spreading quickly.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced yourself for the humiliation that was sure to follow—for the shame of breaking in front of the Emperor, the one whom the Gods spoke through. A whisper at the back of your mind wondered if he ignored your trembling because he thought you might run.
If a soul knew of this, it would be the end of you.
And then, in a single breath, your body was separated from your mind. A slow, uncoiling wave surged through you, leaving you trembling, your form convulsing against the cold marble and the solid press of Caracalla’s body. It was an eruption, a collapse—inside the temple, inside yourself. For him, it was all the same.
No sound escaped your lips, only the soft shudder of breath as the moment shattered within you.
He slowed his movements, his grip turning almost indulgent. Soothing his newly claimed treasure, his sacred offering.
One hand lifted, wrapping firm and possessive around your throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make you feel the weight of his claim. Like a hound with its prey.
“You’re truly a godsend,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent in its own way. “I knew it the first time I saw you… My stupid brother was wrong.”
You did not know what he meant, nor did you know what to say. You could only stand there, caught between his grasp and the remnants of something nameless unraveling inside you.
Your body stirred, aching, the dull throb in your neck reminding you of its strain. You shifted, instinctively trying to turn toward him, but he stopped you. Why should he deny himself the sight of you—the flush warming your cheeks, the softness in your features as you unraveled beneath him? One hand still pressed your cheek against the cool marble pillar.
“Stay there. Don’t try anything.”
But why would he think you would? Why assume defiance when you had already surrendered, when you would fall to your knees if it meant this feeling could last forever? Hadn’t you spent your life in prayer, in devotion? Hadn’t it been all you ever knew, all you ever were?
You felt him shift behind you, heard the quiet muttering of a curse as he wrestled with his own garments. Your eyes, following his movements as best they could from your awkward position, caught glimpses of him—his form smaller than his brother’s, his features marked by the cruel affliction whispered about everywhere.
Compassion ghosted through your heart, a fleeting thing. But you did not pity him. Perhaps he was right—perhaps he had been forsaken by the Gods only to be rewarded in the end. Even if you could not understand why you were his gift.
The struggle ended with a quiet exhale, and then he was upon you again. His hands, rough, found the bare skin beneath your garments, pushing the fabric aside with practiced ease. Another breeze slipped through the temple, meeting your newly exposed flesh, making your body arch instinctively—anticipating, aching, silently craving for the fire to consume you once more.
But then—something else. Something different.
A slow, deliberate glide through your folds, featherlight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, soft sounds escaping his lips, slipping into the sacred hush of the temple.
And all you could do was wait, trembling, caught between the cold marble and his touch. It was foolish to ask. Foolish to do anything but wait, to surrender and expect nothing and everything all at once. The fire inside you rekindled, licking at your skin, unfurling through your limbs. Everything bloomed again, sharper, stronger, until it pushed soft, breathless moans past your lips.
He pressed against you, the hardened length grazing your clit over and over, sending exquisite tremors through your body. Instinctively, you sought more, aching for him to consume you entirely. You wanted to melt against him, for your skin to become his, for this moment to live beyond time—a myth whispered through the ages, even if its end was tragic.
A groan, deep and unrestrained, spilled from his lips as he pressed the tip inside you, his teeth dragging along your cheek in a near-affectionate torment. Your breath hitched. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.
He thought he was about to explode when he pushed the tip inside your welcoming and holy walls. A high pitched groan kissed your ears, as his teeth caressed your cheek. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.
Now, even as pleasure clouded your senses, you grasped why this was forbidden, why it was punished by death. The Gods had to be jealous of earthly delights, of mortal pleasure. Of the way divinity itself could be found in something so profane.
He pushed deeper. He was not large, bit thick, but the sheer intimacy of it made your body tighten around him, made your breath catch as the stretch burned sweet and unbearable. You couldn’t remember how to stop, how to breathe properly.
His breath was hot against your cheek, heavy, his presence overwhelming. With every inch, he stole the air from your lungs, until there was nothing left of you but this.
Caracalla laughed again—a low, humorless sound, thick with madness and possession. It slithered down your spine, coiling itself around your throat. There was no escaping this. No running from the hands that bruised your hips, from the hunger that devoured you whole.
His touch burned, his fingers pressing into your flesh as if to leave his mark beneath the skin. He was savoring you—drinking you in—every tremor, every flutter of your cunt around him, the way you stretched, soft and wet, to fit him. It was a feverish worship.
“Even holier than I thought,” he murmured, almost reverent.
But you weren’t listening. Not to his words, not to reason, not to the lingering taste of sin on your tongue. Your mind floated somewhere between pleasure and death, where all things bled together. You pressed your forehead against the cold marble, your cheek slipping from his, as if to escape the heat of his breath.
But there was no escaping him. The Emperor of Rome had carved himself inside you.
A ragged groan spilled from his lips as he withdrew just enough to make you whimper. He did not leave you, would not leave you—just hovered on the edge, teasing, savoring, as if you were something holy. The last thing he would ever kneel before.
Then, with a slow, deliberate push, he sank deeper.
Your body shuddered violently, pleasure and pain melting together, and when your knees threatened to give, his grip only tightened. He would not let you fall.
And then he did it again. And again. And again.
Each slow thrust burned through you, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock dragging against every trembling part of you. He was deliberate, agonizingly so, grinding deep, only pressing further into your undoing. You felt yourself unraveling. His scent, earthy, musky, heavy with sweat, sank into your skin, drowning your senses.
It was torment for you both, though for different reasons. Caracalla was nearly edging himself, caught in the cruel conflict of restraint and indulgence. He should be taking you as he did all others—without thought, without care, without this unbearable intimacy. He should be brutal, impatient, spent and gone before he even learned the shape of your pleasure.
But you were no common whore. No concubine plucked from the outskirts of the empire. You were a gift from Venus herself.
You should’ve been ashamed, mortified, trashing against him… under every opportunity you had. Yet there was no shame to be found in something that carried you so dangerously close to heaven. No guilt in the way your back arched, the way your body curved into him, silently begging for more. Your skin knew no hesitation, no hesitation at all. Not in this temple. Not in the sacredness of the moment.
He moved inside you like a slow-burning prayer, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Just enough to fill you, just enough to claim you without pain. His breath was ragged, strained, as he fought the instincts that begged him to ruin you. His hands, restless and greedy, traced your body relentlessly.
And when he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a hushed, broken confession. “You feel divine.”
“You’re mine,” he rasped, pathetically.
His hips faltered, momentarily losing control, and in his desperation, he drove himself deeper—sharp, bruising thrusts that tore a strangled cry from your throat. The sound, so raw and unbidden, made his cock twitch inside you, sent a shudder rippling down his spine.
Caracalla felt like he was slipping, spiraling, unraveling into something violent and insatiable. He wanted. And he would take.
The rhythm he set was slow but merciless, each thrust deliberate and punishing. Flesh met flesh in a sinful, wet sound that would haunt you long after your body was spent. His balls slapped against your slick center. He dropped his head near your shoulder, mouth grazing the sweat-damp skin, inhaling you.
“I should’ve taken you sooner,” he admitted, and there was something almost mournful in the way he said it. “I shouldn’t have waited.”
The thought of his brother’s voice, his warnings and his disapproval only fueled him further. The sacred place. The sacred women. And yet here you were, bent and broken against the pillar, moaning for the emperor’s cock. It was a desecration. And the Gods did nothing to stop it.
His fingers found your neck again, grazing at your jaw as he squeezed softly, just to get your attention, just for you to feel the weight of his desire. “You belong to me.”
A brutal thrust, deeper this time, made you gasp, your breath catching in short, ragged moans.
“You were always meant to be mine.”
The words ghosted over your skin, lingering, sinking into your very bones. And all around you, the temple remained still, silent.
The Gods were only witnesses.
His words wove themselves into your skin, into your very marrow, a curse. Each thrust was ruthless, driving you deeper against the pillar, your body trembling, breath spilling from your lips in sharp, uneven gasps. The wet, obscene sound of him inside you filled the temple, mingling with the lingering scent of burning incense, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air.
In a moment of clearness you wanted to resist. You wanted to push him away, to tell him this was wrong, that the Gods would never forgive this. But you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you—hips rolling back against him, nails scraping against the cold marble as you arched, as you offered yourself to him. And it was long forgotten again.
A low, ragged groan tore from his throat as his fingers raked down your spine, pressing into the small of your back, forcing you to take him deeper, harder.
“My Vestal,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, thick with possession. “My sacred little thing.”
The words sank into your bones like poison. A violent shudder ripped through you, your walls tightening around him in response. Always belonging to something greater—a city, a people, a divine presence. To the Emperor.
Caracalla let out a sharp, guttural sound, his pace losing all restraint, turning erratic, frenzied. He wasn’t simply fucking you. He was branding you, consuming you, as though he could carve his name into your flesh, into your soul, until nothing remained of you but him.
His grip was merciless, bruising fingers dragging you onto him with thoughtless hunger, as if you were not a woman, not flesh and soul, but something crafted for him—his to desecrate, his to break. Everything he touched was bound to be annihilated. And now, so were you.
The pleasure was unbearable, searing through you like molten iron, scalding and consuming, turning you into something raw, something wild. It built deep within, unrelenting, teetering at the edge of violence—so intense it almost hurt.
Then his hand slid between your legs, fingertips brushing over your clit, teasing, pressing.
It was too much. A strangled cry ripped from your throat, your body recoiling, snapping forward as pleasure crashed through you like divine punishment. You clawed at the marble, at anything, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run from the overwhelming force tearing through you.
Your walls clenched around him, spasming in the throes of your release. A strangled moan broke from your lips—raw, wrecked, helpless. Your legs trembled, your body shuddering as ecstasy crashed over you in unrelenting waves, leaving you undone, ruined, and his.
Trapped between the pillar and his tiny body.
Caracalla groaned, his breath hot against your ear, his thrusts turning erratic as he felt you tightening around him, dragging him deeper into his own oblivion. His body seized, pleasure snapping through him like a lightning strike.
But he didn’t stop moving.
His hands crushed your waist, forcing you onto him as he buried himself to the hilt, the last shuddering thrust stealing his breath. His body trembled, taut with pleasure, and a choked, wrecked sound escaped his throat as he spilled inside you—hot, thick, branding you.
For a fleeting moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breaths against your cheek, the weight of his body pressing you into the marble, your own limbs still trembling from the aftershocks of what he had done to you.
His lips brushed your skin—not a kiss, but something reverent, something he believed was devotion.
Then, a sharp gasp shattered the silence.
Three Vestal Virgins, sisters in faith, the girls who had walked beside you through womanhood, through duty, through sanctity, stood close, eyes wide, faces pale, their hands trembling as if they had witnessed the fire of Vesta itself extinguish before their very eyes.
You pushed against Caracalla’s chest, your heart lurching in terror, in shame, in something close to grief. But he did not move. He did not release you.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look at them—his grip on your waist tightening possessively, his body still pressed flush against yours, the evidence of your ruin still wet between your thighs.
And he smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer, but something horrible. Something knowing.
Because he knew what he was going to do to them.
They had seen too much.
And worse—they had looked at you as though you were defiled. As though you were disgusting. As though his holy gift had been anything but sacred. They would pay for that. He would make sure of it.
“Emperor—” You choked out, your voice barely more than a strangled breath as you shoved against his chest once more.
This time, he let you go.
The loss of his warmth should have felt like relief, but it was nothing of the sort. Cold horror settled into your bones, spreading through you like ink seeping into water. The weight of fate crashed upon you, cruel and suffocating. There was no undoing this. No running from it. By morning, you would be sentenced. By entombment, your life was already forfeit.
The realization struck like a blow, sending you stumbling toward them, the only ones who might understand, who might save you. But your feet tangled in the heavy folds of your robes, and you collapsed onto the marble with a sickening crack. The impact jarred through your knees, the cold stone biting into your flesh as you scrambled forward on trembling hands, crawling. The adrenaline of the situation soothed any pain you could’ve felt.
“Please,” you whispered, voice raw, desperate. “I didn’t… I could never… I—”
You couldn’t even form the words. You didn’t know what you were pleading for. Mercy? Silence? Forgiveness?
They stood unmoving. Their faces were pale, their expressions stricken, their hands clasped so tightly they trembled. They had always been your sisters, your kin, bound to you by sacred oaths. And yet, in that moment, they looked at you not with recognition, but with dread.
They knew what had happened. They knew what they had walked in on. But acknowledging it—bringing the truth into the open—was something else entirely.
To accuse you would be to condemn you. To accuse him would be to invite his wrath.
No one would believe them. No one would dare.
“Get up.” The words came sharp as a blade, slicing through the silence that had settled like a shroud.
You barely registered the voice at first, still kneeling on the cold marble, your limbs trembling, your mind struggling to stitch reality back together. But then a hand gripped your arm, yanking you upward with startling force.
“Go find some poor drunk man,” she commanded one of the other girls, voice low, desperate.
The weight of her meaning pressed against your ribs. A lie. A scapegoat. A way to twist the truth into something palatable for those who would judge. You opened your mouth to speak, to protest—to beg—but the words never came.
When you turned your head to search for him you found nothing. Caracalla was gone.
He had left as effortlessly as he had come, slipping into the night without a second glance. There was no hesitation in his escape. He had abandoned you in the wreckage of his sins.
Before you could move, the temple doors burst open.
His Imperial guards stormed in, the gleam of their armor flashing under the sacred fire’s glow. There were no accusations, no trial, no time to plead. The three women who had stood beside you for years, who had once sworn the same oaths, were seized with brutal efficiency. Hands wrenched behind their backs, prayers torn from their lips as they were dragged away.
You did nothing.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You didn’t so much as lift a finger as they were pulled from the temple and cast into the night.
THE NIGHT PASSED IN A BLUR.
You didn’t remember how you got back to your chambers. You didn’t remember if you had washed the sin from your skin, if you had tried to sleep, if you had prayed. Perhaps you had wandered the temple in a daze, or perhaps you had simply stood there, staring at the embers of the fire until the sky cracked open with the first light of dawn.
But morning came. And with it, judgment.
The remaining Vestals stood in silence at the edge of the dirt pit, their white robes ghostlike against the moist earth. Their faces were unreadable, their eyes avoiding yours.
You lifted your gaze.
Emperor Caracalla stood across from you, watching.
His face was unreadable, his sharp features betraying nothing. But it was his eyes that struck you the most—those cold, dull eyes, absent of guilt, absent of remorse.
And it was in that moment that you realized—you felt nothing either.
a/n: i thought about killing the reader but i chickened… thank you for reading and supporting akl my caracalla works 🫶🏼 ily babies.
— your son wants to spend this christmas with his parents, years after you drifted apart. and you’d walk through hell to make his wish possible. first take: lots of phone calls and annoyed sighs.
✧ PAIRING. eddie munson x fem!reader
✧ WORD COUNT. 3.6k
✧ WARNINGS. eddie being an asshole. i can’t think of any now, let me know if you find one.
being at the airport for the second time this month didn’t surprise you. nor did the awful communication you had with your son’s father. and it all results in another struggle at your least favorite place right now, trying to make it on time for your second flight in the last 24 hours.
it was really easy for him to tell you he wasn't in that state, he got confused and he ended up on the other side of the country. you weren’t surprised by his usual behaviour, at this point you weren’t even angry, just disappointed. you're the one traveling across the country to almost rescue your son, who has fear of airplanes and vertigo and he stresses so easily by the thought of flying. but you can't just point the finger at eddie for what happened between the both of you, that would've been absolutely unfair.
so yeah, now the spitting image of the recently proclaimed rockstar was following behind you with a backpack that was probably twice his weight, holding his stuffed animal so tight he might break it.
so yeah, now the spitting image of the recently proclaimed rockstar was following behind you with a backpack that was probably twice his weight, holding his stuffed animal so tight he might break it.
when you were at the gate, and you both could finally breath - because you didn't lose this flight, he sights. “moooom, i don’t want to fly” his voice is small and impossibly frail, he's afraid.
you lowered yourself to his level, grabbing him by the shoulders. “i know, dear, i tried to reschedule this with your father, but it was impossible” his expression changed, and a few tears threatened to fall, so your hands moved up to cup his face, gently. “we will have to fly home, i’m sorry”.
he was a good kid; he wasn’t as messy as you thought he would be, being eddie’s son and because they, frankly, spend a lot of time together. he was so understanding and empathic. he even had a notion of why things were the way they were.
his little fingers swept a single tear that fell down his cheek, “it’s a short flight, right?”
you smiled at him, “yes, dear, about 3 hours” he tried to get out of your embrace, and so you did, after placing a kiss on his forehead. leaving it behind, you preferred to try and cheer him up: “i got your favourite snacks and music!”.
he smiled sympathetically at your efforts with those teary eyes. “did you brought the mixtape pa made for me?”
your expression soon changed, as you were confused “i—i don’t? i got the one we did together,” last time you listened to the mixtape was merely a week ago, and he loved it! saying eddie’s one was too noisy.
spending time with his dad changed him a bit, sometimes.
he scrunched his face in disgust, “i don’t think i like those anymore” he shake his head, his hair moving around, making you loathe the fact he was, indeed, a carbon copy of his father. “i want daddy’s mixtape”
shrugging, you took hold of his little hands, “sorry, i should have brought both of them,” he just grinned at you, shrugging too, attempting to mimic you.
“doesn’t matter,” he said, getting his hands free once again to fish his walkman from your bag. he got it playing, fooling around as he listened to those tunes he didn’t like anymore.
you sat down, trying to read whatever book you have brought. it wasn’t long until you felt your son’s eyes glued to your face.
“mom?” his voice was hushed, not matching the vibrancy he had seconds ago.
you carried your eyes off you book to look at him, “what is it?”
a nervous smile crashed on his face, “can we spend this christmas all together? please?”
you had to blink a few times, trying to fool yourself into thinking you had listened wrong.
“what do you mean, dear?”
his face beamed with excitement “you, dad, me!” you choked on your own spit, and he must’ve been so scared by your reaction that he began to ramble, “just the three of us! uhm, not with josh or dad’s friends and the funny ladies, nope! i want you and him and me!”
there was a few seconds of silence in which you tried to process everything, from ignoring the funny ladies part to think what it would mean to have a christmas with eddie. it wouldn’t work; nope, it would be absolutely disastrous. he would say all this dumb shit, and you know you won’t hide the annoyed expression at his antics.
you knew that, but the sudden shine on your son’s eyes changed something in you; he really wanted that. he really wanted something you know you could never have, but his little self with all his emotions was enough to change your opinion. maybe you could try.
sighing, you stared at him, pretending to be serious, “you know it’s hard, right? but i’m going to do anything to make it possible; how does that sound?” the largest smile appeared on his face again, and he jumped off his seat to celebrate. he circled the couple of seats to gather some speed to crash in your lap, leaving kisses all your face. he was so ecstatic he couldn’t even hide it.
“yes! thank you! thank you! i love you, you’re the best mom of the universe!”
you feared what would come, and you feared he could get the disappointment of his life by this whole situation.
it was almost 2 am.
the house was in complete silence, except for the fact you had to raise your voice at the negative response of eddie. you were just about to lose it and wake up the whole neighbourhood. “what do you mean you can’t? what the fuck is wrong with you, edward?!”
now, searching where corroded coffin was performing every day wasn’t hard; you didn’t even have to search for god’s sake. they had become so prominent in the past few months that corroded coffin’s posters and tour dates were everywhere. there, in front of you, laid a little poster with the tour dates, and with simple math, you estimated he had about an hour or two before he had to jump into the stage. in that moment your nightmare started.
he laughed at you as if you had told him the most clever joke ever. which, of course, just made your blood boil. “woah, woah, hey, why are you always calling me to throw insults?” just by the tone of his voice, you knew he was smiling on the other side of the line. he was playing with you, acting cool and nice, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong through these years.
his attitude got you in a spiral of indignation, and you had to take a few breaths not to hang up and throw the phone far away.
then, eddie was met with a shaky breath and that cold tone he wasn’t expecting from you, “have you ever —i don’t know, thought that maybe you deserve it? are you even listening to yourself or are you too high or drunk to answer me properly?”
you swore you heard him grinning through the line. “it’s both, you know, both” you don’t even know how you could be so mad when this was everything you could obtain from him; you have known eddie for half of your life. he was like this. he’s always been like this. after breathing out, he continued: “yeah, uhm, why were you even shouting at me? all you ever do is yell at me? but, princess, do you remember how you spoke to me when you loved me? soft and delicate… like you never truly got angry at me back then”
your expression changed. the kitchen got colder, and your body felt like it was freezing as you grew impatient with this phone call. did he actually said those words to you? now? what was he thinking? was this a sick trick of your mind to warn you about why you shouldn’t reach out to him? unfortunately, it was real. you weren’t in a dream – nightmare. the dim, warm light coming from the hall and the faint sound of the clock reminds you.
you reckoned the knot on your throat and the sudden feeling of emptiness in your stomach were all because you were enraged by his actions.
right, you were mad at him.
you let out a trembling sigh as you found the strength to speak with a stern, harsh voice –still hushed by the fact everyone was asleep, “you can’t be real right now, please, eddie! act like an adult and try to sober up a bit! this is important”
“i’m about to perform in front of people… i can’t sober up, woman!” his loud voice felt like a whiplash, and you had to take a step back from the phone even if he wasn’t there.
you can tell he was growing anxious by his sudden reaction, and you tricked yourself into believing you didn’t care at all. you were ending this phone call because you didn’t want to deal with a high eddie.
“i’ll call you, early and you’re going to answer the phone” you had to take a short pause to ponder about the words you were going to say – and how you’re going to declare them. “remember that this isn’t because i want to see you on christmas day, it’s for our son, and you love him so much you’ll do anything for him, right?”
that wasn’t smooth or admirable. it sounded like you were manipulating him into doing this when he should have said yes in a blink.
“fine, talk to you later” he lingered on the phone for a few seconds, as you grew eager to hear the classic beep marking the end of the call.
after you heard it, a tiny voice startled you, “that was a no?” you let the phone fall from your hand, as the two of you flinched at the impact sound it made.
with a hand on your heart and the other reaching out for your son’s shoulder, you said in a firm but sweet tone: “god, don’t scare me like that, love, please” his little smile, revealing the gap those missing teeth have left, made you grin. lifting the gloom mood eddie put you through. “and don’t spy me, okay?”
his playful smile never left his pink cheeks. “i’m sorry momma, i’m just excited, i know pa would say yes!” he was so thrilled about this reunion, and your heart shrunk. you couldn’t raise his hopes just for eddie to come and destroy them. so you remained silent about it. “do you miss him?”
were the munsons always throwing you out of your safe state of mind? his innocuous question felt like a splash of ice-cold water.
“why are you asking me that, dear?”
he struggled a bit to find a response. “because he told me—“
you had to stop him right there, not wanting to torment yourself with whatever thing he said. because it didn’t matter if he missed you or not, both of them already were harming you. “--you shouldn’t be saying that to me, if your father told you it wasn’t because he wanted me to know,”
his face dropped, but you know he’ll forget all of this tomorrow, “okay…”.
“who’s this?” you were taken aback by a rough tone, the voice that belonged to a sleepy woman. you should have expected it. after all, he was living his dream of fucking anyone, anything, and whenever he wanted.
you smiled through it, acting nice. getting out your best soft-spoken voice, “can i speak with eddie, please?”
she muttered a fuck, and you heard how she strumbled to move, probably checking his state. “i don’t think so, dear, he’s asleep right now, but i’ll tell him whatever you have to te–”
you had to interrupt her; otherwise, she would hang up the call, and you can’t put yourself through the mortification of calling him again. “--yeah, no. wake him up, please. it’s wayne’s mother speaking”
she yawned. “who’s wayne?” she sounds bewildered.
you felt a pang of pain somewhere in your body – but you forbid to acknowledge it.
“his son,” your firm tone let her know it wasn’t a joke.
“ooooh, fuck,” she whispered to the phone before you heard from afar how she was making her best attempt at waking up eddie, almost shouting his name.
after a few seconds and a few annoyed whispers, you knew eddie was on the phone. his heavy breathing gave away he wasn’t foreseeing you to call at twelve pm – o’clock.
“ow! you’re unreal!” you had to swallow a chuckle at his childish tone and behaviour.
with a faint smile hanging onto your face, you spoke with a tone that quite didn’t match, “i told you i was going to call, i’ll let you have a glass of water or something, but be quick, please”
eddie grumbled, irritated. it was far too early to deal with this. for him. “why are you yelling?” he complained.
“i’m not yelling, i’m pretty sure you’re having a hangover”
you heard more struggling. and then a hard slap. you didn’t even want to wonder why or what was that noise. “where are you? it’s so noisy – fuck”
“at work”
“oh, right, sorry i forgot” he paused to gulp a lot of water, which ended in a loud aaaah. “i feel like trash”
shaking your head, you decided you couldn’t stand another word he says unrelated to all this christmas chaos. “i didn’t call to know about your day, munson,” he whispered something you couldn’t catch and didn’t have the time to. so you continued, “you have to clean christmas day, remember?”
he let out a defeated sigh. now he knows there’s no way to elude whatever got into his son’s head with an equally obstinate mother. he thought, for a moment, you would let it go as soon as he said no, as soon as he said he was so high yesterday. he thought it would be like the few times you called in the past years - brief, straight to the point, and if he said no, you wouldn't bother yourself to continue and get what you wanted. but here’s the difference: he knew it wasn’t you the one who desired his presence. not after years of almost non-existent communication.
he made his choice right there, not letting the remote memories well-kept in his subconscious bleed through and into his mind.
he took a defensive stance as if there was a way of hiding himself when you weren’t even there with him, judging him. looking down at the poor decisions he made. or maybe you’ll stare at him with your big heartbroken eyes, wanting to hear why, wanting answers. those he didn’t have, or were so lost in his memory, he doesn’t bother trying to locate them anymore. and leaving you without a proper explanation and desolated eyes would shatter his heart all over again.
a loud thud from your line brought him back to reality. “i can’t, i already have plans, and this christmas it’s your turn! and i got everything planned already, i guess you’ll have to take wayne, sorry”
you couldn’t take his thousandth no nicely. “wayne wants to spend the christmas day with us both, eddie, what’s not so clear about it?”
he acted surprised, “oooh,” but decided to stay fixed on his decision. “i still cannot, maybe the next one?”
at this point, you felt like he was playing with this situation. all of this was amusing to him and you’ll get nothing but more vexed with him. he was pushing you to a place you didn’t want to go. he was making you despise him.
but you weren’t easy to shut down, “what could even be your plans for that day? cocaine and beautiful women? get yourself together, edward, please” he didn’t mean to, but he had to muffle a chuckle, a humorless one. “i’m willing to fly where you are and have all of that there, i don’t care, i just want to see wayne happy”
he still couldn’t get you off his back. you both were growing impatient with every response, by every fucking breath. “oh, you can make him delighted by buying him an electric guitar or something i think he deserves it now, he’s genuinely talented, you should listen to him!”
his cynical response set your mind on fire. and eddie was a lot of things, but you haven’t experienced this supposedly new facet – being a complete asshole.
“you’re impossible, aren’t you?”
yet again, he just went for his comfortable answer, “you don’t get to say that to me, when you’re the one attempting to make this happen with a few weeks of anticipation!”
he wasn’t only impossible but unreal, and you were mere seconds away from just cutting all contact with him. maybe you were being unreasonable, even ridiculous. still, it was something you had to ignore for the sake of your son's happiness. “i’m sorry our son wanted to spend this christmas like a functional family!” you took a brief pause before continuing, not caring a few colleagues were now hearing you, “not seeing you wasted by three am or being unhappy here because he miss the pathetic excuse he has as a father!”
you regret the brutal words the second they came out of your mouth. the ones that felt like a bucket of cold water was thrown at him. he even forgot he had a headache. for a few seconds, you both were encapsulated in a freezing stillness. you thought he would hang up the phone, and you’d understand. it was unfair, but oh so necessary.
he cleared his throat before speaking, “woooah, hey” his tone was different, serious but gentle. he left that mischievousness behind. “i’m not a bad parent, i’m present and i love wayne! what’s wrong with you?”
after literally calling him a terrible father, there weren’t many things you could do to change his mind, so your choice was an ultimatum, “can you clean that day?”
he smiled at your fatigued voice; of course you were going to break him before he could ever get a chance to resist. “hmmm, only if you ask nicely”
“eddie, this is not a fucking joke”
“oh, no, i can’t clean that day for you, sweetheart, sorry” he deadpanned.
your snorted, “you’re unbelievable–as if– as if i wanted to see you!” and after these phone calls, you wouldn’t even want to dream with him – or let his image wander around your mind.
he hummed, “not, wrong answer, are we going to do this all day? i got a show today… so”
you used to know eddie like the back of your hand. you used to know how he felt with a single word because of his tone. and maybe you could be wrong about what you were assuming – but he already said yes. he just wanted to make sure you weren’t annoyed with him. if you refuse, he will still come. he would reach for you in other opportunities and try to make things right, to ask for forgiveness and hope they can still have that christmas dinner.
so you follow along, for the good old times. “good god, would you please cancel your more relevant plans and meetings for christmas day to spend the day with your son? please, eddie, it would be the world for him”
that was the most embarrassing thing you’ve done since you were a dumb adolescent in the back of eddie’s van--nope, you can’t follow that train of thought right now.
“i know what you’re doing, but i didn’t like your sarcasm—“ he paused for a few seconds to take a breath. you opened your mouth to say something, but he wasn’t prepared to hear more insults from you, “--i’ll clean the day, i think you gotta travel all across the country, just a moment let me see where are we playing that few days…”
an drained sigh came out the second he said that. “thank you, eddie”
“i’ll buy you the plane tickets and send them to you”
you shake your head, even if he can’t see you. “it’s not necessary, i’m good i can cost them”
but now it was his turn to not accept a no. “i’m just trying to pay for all those years when we weren’t this big and—“
you had to intercept him for your own good. “i did that because i loved you; you don’t need to pay me back anything, don’t feel obligated to do that because of it,” your words sprayed with acid that little hidden scar, now almost unnoticeable. but it was there and would never heal. you hated how easy it was to cause harm to it. and eddie hated how those words rolled out your tongue so effortlessly. because he feels like he doesn’t know you anymore.
“right, okay, but i can pay them now, so that’s what i’m gonna do. do you still live there?”
you let him do what he wants, not wanting to start another argument over something so frivolous. “yes, i still live here”
“great, see you” he had to hang up before hearing anything else from you.
“see—“ the phone beeping stopped you, bringing you back to reality, to the concerned stares from your co-workers. to the now sharp noise of the room. “this can’t be real,” you mumbled to yourself before going to the bathroom to find a bit of peace.
to be alone with your racing thoughts, and racing heart. at least for few minutes.
COMMENTS, LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE HIGHLY APPRECIATED i will literally give you forehead kisses if you support me <3
wayne’s mixtape from eddie.
finally it’s out !! i’m so sorry for keeping you waiting for it :( but i have lots to do for uni now !! so enjoy !! <3
remember english isn’t my first language so it might have some mistakes, if you want to, you can correct me. but be nice about it, it’s all i ask.
now, if you want to break your heart a bit more, listen to the song that inspired this fic <3
Caracalla goes to great lengths to cure your home sickness, in more ways than one 💍🎄🥂✨
Please Note:
Slight time skip, fast slow-burn, strangers to lovers
Not sure if this will be OOC for Caracalla- author has not seen movie but has seen some spoilers - I heard Dondus is a boy in the movie- author took creative liberties and she’s a gal now
Reader wears braids in hair and is referred to as female- no other descriptors !! Viking/Norse communities ‘adopted’ people from all walks of life and never had just one ‘look’
Language translations list at the end of story (It’s just Google translate rip) xx
🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️
Rome seemed worlds away from your home the closer and closer you got to city center
The sounds, smells, and colors were dulled to your senses as you were brought before the young emperors through the palace gates
Your home in the North had seen much destruction, not from the romans, but other enemy ships and villages
And so you’d fled away with other young woman and children in hopes of peace, of freedom
You should have known it wouldn’t be so simple
You stood facing petty theft from a roman carriage with food, you plead in your broken tongue as best you could for them to spare you- the bread in your hands ripped and flung away
It was fate that Geta had allowed Caracalla to bring Dondus to the city hearings today to keep his boredom and episodes at bay- she was usually always able to calm him
The bread landed close to the emperors feet and Dondus leapt down at once, never one to turn away a snack
With tears in your eyes you watched as a pet was allowed the full loaf over you and you hung your head in defeat- your fate was in their hands
Ever the lady, Dondus ran to share a piece of bread with her master, looking at you with her wide eyes
Caracalla took the piece of bread and popped it in his mouth before speaking
“Where is she from? She’s not Roman, nor Greek?”
A guard bowed and spoke “She hails from the North, the savage lands”
His eyes glittered darkly realizing she was so far from home, from family or friends- only you, all alone, and what was a poor girl to do? Caracalla could use some fun, he’d tired from the same concubines and you looked so different from any Roman citizens
Your hair in serval braids marking victories over your enemies while on the road, dark eye makeup and clothing to blend into the grey, cold Earth- you stuck out like a sore thumb in the richly colored city
He declared no harm to fall you and ensured you’d be treated as his guest, Geta rolled his eyes but had no objection to his brothers latest conquest
Caracalla had you and your few belongings moved to a room in his wing of the palace- gifting you every finery the next morning, including a glorious rose water bath and large breakfast right to your bedside.
After you were dressed in the softest rose shades, complimenting your figure draped in glittering finery
You saw little of him throughout the first weeks dedicating time to learn the roman culture and language.
When the servants found you presentable he had you accompany him throughout the day.
Between meetings and social gatherings you felt as much of a pet as lady Dondus, who affectionately rode on your shoulder most evenings.
It was one evening she joined you in your room, both resting on a table as you scribbled away in a journal.
You’d written so many stories from your first day and escaping death to the witness of gladiator tournaments and the place gardens.
It felt as though you’d entered your own Valhalla and praised your Gods for a safe journey. The solstice was approaching and though the Romans had their own celebrations and Gods you’d not forgotten yourself or family.
It was a quiet, early morning, not even the servants had rose out of bed
Caracalla, unable to sleep his mind plagued- and venturing out of bed, found you weeping in the gardens. The pines set out for Saturnalia so similar and different to yours back home
He sat softly next to you bringing you close in a warm embrace, wrapping an outer layer of his toga over you keeping you warm on the stone bench
“Why do you weep, Dulcissima?”
Your journal beside you, you’d opened the page with your writing about the winter solstice- ‘Yule- the Winter Solstice” is what you called it
Visions of spiced cakes, roasted meats, ale and mead, every recipe you could remember, drawings of Yule decorations and traditions, gift giving and the stationary scent of dried oranges hit Caracalla full force
Not only inviting him into your small world but realizing you were terribly homesick, the festivities of Saturnalia looking so similar were no help to your sorrow
He was determined to do everything in his power to impress you with a Yule festival fit for a Goddess
It was a week of strait planning and preparation, forgoing his formal duties in favor of planning the perfect feast.
He’d demanded the largest pines found in the city displayed in the grand hall of the palace
Droves of servants rapidly created ornaments, bits, and bobbles made of metal by the hundreds, placing each one on the tree with care despite the task at hand
Meticulous effort went into creating each recipe to perfection, in Caracalla’s eyes nothing was good enough, he’d tasted every dish and hoped it was close enough to your meals back home
You arose the day of the festival, maids preparing the bath in Caracalla’s room and leading you in, scrubbed down with rich oils of vanilla, cinnamon, clove and cherry
You were dried and dressed in a deep green and gold stola with a soft white fur collared cape
Your hair was styled in sweeping, grand braids with gold pieces and a pine wreath replaced the traditional laurel
You felt like a Goddess dressed so nicely for what felt like the most magical day
You’d spent your time the past week crafting a gift for Caracalla, a beautiful new blade, bronzed handle engraved with the sacred runic words Viska, Sigur, and Ast, the last word you’d treasured the most
You found yourself growing fonder and fonder of Caracalla’s company and the time he made for you each day grew longer and longer
He’d said he found it impossible to stay away from you- plucking the nearest flower down to place behind your ear the first month of your stay
That memory felt so familiar now as Caracalla met you on the steps “You look divine, Carissima - You’ll outshine all here!”
You could say the same for him, looking nothing less than regal in a long emerald toga and donned a golden laurel
You blushed as you took his arm guiding you to the grand hall with a confident stride, the tree aglow with candle light and strung with red berries
You delighted all night sharing a large feast, music, you friends company and relished the grandeur Calla had spent so much effort to display for you
He made you feel welcome, invited and included- he warmed you from the inside out
As the festivities died down he pulled you aside to the gardens, they were decorated with silver and gold garland illuminated by the moonlight
You walked hand in hand stopping at a stone bench with a cover when a light snow began to fall
“It seems you’ve brought Aquilo’s spirt to Rome this season- it was a wonder I found you” he sighed caressing your face
You grabbed his hand lifting your gaze to his “It seems that Rome is becoming more like home the longer I stay”
“I have one more surprise for you, Dulcissima!” He whispered excitedly, leaning closer to you “Dondus?”
You gazed up a she dropped down to a lower branch and dropped a bundle of leaves into his hand before scurrying off for more treats from the grand hall
“Have you ever heard the story of visci, Cor Meum?” He said, taking you hand once more
You shook your head never hearing this story but recognizing the plant and the tradition it carried back home you hoped his story would lead you down the same path
You giggled with a blush as he pulled you in by the waist holding the bundle over your head “Let me show you, Carissima” his lips moulding perfectly to yours in an unbreakable kiss
It seemed to last a lifetime in only a few moments and he knew he could have no other in his life
“Mea Omnia please be mine? I’ll give you anything you could desire- you’ll want for nothing except to spend you days committed to your passions- I’ll treasure you always. With you by my side I will be unstoppable in every way- Make me feel alive- whole. Become my Empress?” He held a crafted ring with delicately placed emeralds surrounding a lavish diamond in the center, inside was carved the symbols of Mars and Venus- a true work of art.
A soft gasp left you, eyes welling with tears at his truest, most vulnerable confession
“Of course my Calla! How could I turn away your love, your bewitching displays of affection? You see me as I am and who I am becoming, as I see you” you pulled out your gift to him, the dagger embellished with your language, a sacred blessing for you lover
“It’s blesses the wielder with wisdom, victory, and love, things you now have much success in” you said, a giddy lilt in your voice. He swung you around laughing softly holding you close and slipping your ring on your hand
“I shall wield it every day if I must, vanquish anyone who would try and take you away from me!” He taunted and slipped the dagger into an inner pocket
Now strolling arm in arm again he pulled you in for another kiss, the snow softly coating you both in the silent, perfect night
🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️🕊️🎄🥂🕯️
Anyways!! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed xx
