My Brain Choosing My Current Hyperfixation:

REBLOG IF ITS OKAY IF I PUT SOMETHING FUCKING WEIRD AS FUCK IN YOUR INBOX

Ano

Requests are currently:

OPEN

The Boys Masterlist also includes The Boys Diabolical. It does NOT include Gen V NOR the comics.

Even though I might write for some characters more than others, the other characters are still available as well!

Do not be afraid to request anyone from the current open form of media of the Fandom!

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I do not own The Boys or any of its characters. The Boys is the property of Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson and Sony Interactive Entertainment This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

finding out making up whole detailed scenarios with fictional characters in your head is a “sign of mental illness”

Reblog if you miss Alan Rickman.

rip sigmund freud you would’ve loved living in the generation where we use “daddy” and “mommy” to refer to people we find attractive 💀

Oh my, this is so beautifully written??

It's been a while since I read something on these two and I'm so glad the first fic after that time was this<33

You didn't disappoint, hope I'll read more angst like this from you<33

I very much recommend reading<33

and if you go, i want to go with you.

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ synopsis: the sister of the empire has died, the emperors subsequently follow. (2.1k)

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ contents: death, depictions of dead bodies and decay, mourning, buckle up for this, intrusive thoughts, angst, suicide, heart attacks and brain hemorrhaging

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚: caracalla x sister!reader x geta

⋆ ౨ৎ˚ ⋆ ˚ a/n: making my comeback with something sad!! let me know how you feel about this, as i’m slightly unsure of it! thank you all for being so patient with me, it truly means so so much to me!! a few people wanted angst, and i hope i delivered it properly!!

my masterlist!

the halls have begun to stench.

down the hall, next to geta’s chambers, the doors to their sister’s chambers are thrown open. through the doors, caracalla can see her body, cloaked by a white cloth. his hands wrap tighter around the flowers in his hands, thorns digging into his hands, yet the sting is dull. he hasn’t felt much since she died, flowing through his days as if he was stuck in a wine bottle, slushing around.

he can see geta’s hunched form, laying over their sister.

the moon illuminates the room, casting a light over the now abandoned room, dust covering the untouched surfaces. he can see the jutting of geta’s back through his night robes, the bumps of his spine protruding out as if he was the one dead. they’re the same robes that he had worn when they found their sister, curled into her bed, her soul ascended to the heavens.

it was no murder plot that took her life nor a fit of rage or a sudden spark of depression. no, it was her brain, physician after physician had been dragged into the room, crinkling their noses as they studied the deceased empress, gently pointing out the slight swelling of her head. they had murmured about blood pooling in her skull, leaking from a burst vessel.

even now, a week later, they cannot move her body.

there’s a pile of vomit next to her bed, rotting into the carpet, a sign of her struggle. next to it lies a pile of fabric she had been messing with, giggling about dresses and shawls. it pains him, to stare at the multitude of projects and hobbies littered around palatine, forever frozen in time. incomplete and forgotten. even now, in her bed, with the slight sheen of blistering and bloating, foam leaking from her nose as if she had a cold, caracalla cannot help but think she is beautiful.

he knows geta thinks the same.

even now, lingering at the door and trying to ignore the stench of his rotting sister, caracalla can see how geta holds her as if she’ll awake any minute now, clinging to her like a small child. his hair is matted from his refusal to bathe, darkened by grease as he curls into the side of the bed, refusing to leave. at night, when he sleeps in the room next to geta’s, desperate to be close to his siblings, caracalla will even hear him talking to her, crying pitifully.

but who is he to judge?

at night, caracalla curls deep into his bed, mourning the loss of his anaticula. the bed is no longer warmed by the sleeping body of his sister, seeking out comfort in the dead of night while geta works. no longer do the halls smell of berries and flowers, the curtains drawn tight as the smell of her body fills palatine. no longer does caracalla have support against geta, no one to run to when their brother gets mean. at night, he’ll cry into his bedsheets, trying to cling to the lingering scent of her perfumes.

the servants have left alongside their mother. all that is left is the two of them in their grief, guarded by the praetorian.

-

rome mourns the loss of their empress alongside the brothers.

a darkness spreads over rome, the streets no longer bustling with life and activity when the news breaks. the games are indefinitely paused, any celebrations or parties getting lost in the wave of grief.

banners are hung over every window, aristocrat or commoner in remembrance of the now late empress. a procession is led through town by the praetorian guard once her body is removed from palatine, getting taken through palatine. deification had started later, with an uncanny wax version of the empress being presented in the temple.

when they first see her, the brothers cannot look away.

not while an uncannily similar version of their sister rests upon a bed of ivory and gold, dressed in her finest robes, gold and jewels strewn over her body like garland. a laurel wreath is wrapped around the figure’s head, large and commanding of attention as people pour in to pay their respects. on the left side of her body, the senate sits, cloaked in black as they stare ahead while the brothers sit on the right, dressed in their mourning robes. their outfits are eerily similar to their war uniforms, cloaks dangling off their shoulders with gold plates pressing into their chests, yet instead of white, they’re dressed in black fabric.

on the final day of mourning, geta is the one to seal his sister away, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before the bier is whistled away.

-

they break tradition.

there is no cremation, no pyre that raises to the skies and carries the scent of death throughout rome. instead, their sister is embalmed and entombed within the pantheon. neither of them see her body before it’s put in it’s tomb, still intact. however, caracalla is cursed to see it while her tomb is getting shut, a glass pane spread over the top of her coffin, her face staring back at him before the door is slammed shut.

he pukes in the pantheon, nasty, gagging sobs leaving his mouth as the image of his sister’s embalmed body sinks into his eyelids.

that night, caracalla dreams of too dull eyes and pale skin.

-

geta becomes cruel once their sister is gone.

he’s a mean shell of a man, screaming and launching items at caracalla as if he were a stray dog, haunted by the ghost of his sister. at night, he sees her still, curled into her side of the bed, head swollen with blood leaking out of her lips. he cannot move once the phantom joins him, unable to move or talk. he stays awake until the day breaks, the illusion of his sister disappearing once the light begins to seep into his room.

everywhere he goes, he sees her. phantom laughs echoing through palatine, flickers of tan skin and curly hair running through the garden, whispered proclamations of love flowing through the library. catching glimpses of white dresses running around a corner, forever out of his reach.

her death keeps him awake, constantly aware.

paranoia seeps into his chest as he continues on his duties, waiting for someone to take advantage of his weakness, waiting for the inevitable knife to slice through his chest. he cannot look at caracalla, haunted by his eyes that shine the same way their sister’s did. he pushes for more military invasions, not wanting to spend anymore time with the mourning look in general acacius’ eyes when they meet, pushing back any attempts of consolidation. geta wishes for pain, for suffering.

he wishes for sleep.

one night, he lies next to his phantom sister, mind sluggish with exhaustion and grief. the room is swelteringly warm, silence pressing into his chest as he thinks back to the warm nights he’d spend with his sister, sitting out on the balconies and watching rome, unbothered by their duties outside of their relationship.

and he wants to do it again.

he wants to loosely braid his sisters hair as she looks at the stars, stumbling through the stories of her day as she basks in the warmth of rome’s nights. he wants to bury his head in the junction of her neck and shoulder, to feel the comforting scratch of her nails in his hair as he cries. he wants to hear uncontrollable laughter and the slight rasp of her breath as she sleeps.

-

he finds himself standing in front of her tomb.

the pantheon is empty, bare of it’s vestal virgins and priests, the moonlight seeping in through the windows, illuminating her tomb. his fingers dig into the stone as he pushes the door open, ignoring the loud creaking and dragging of the door.

his sister stares back at him.

if he didn’t know better, he’d assume she was stuck in her coffin, still breathing. heart still beating. she looks like nothing had ever happened, like she never rotted in palatine for days, organs and muscles deteriorating. as if her vessels had never exploded. as if geta didn’t spend weeks mourning over her dead body, feeling her skin grow cold and nasty as she blistered.

he knows he should turn back. that he should slam the door closed and return to the ghostly apparition waiting in his room. but he finds himself creeping closer to her coffin, stretching out a hand to lay against the glass panel, feeling the chill of her tomb creep into his body.

and then he cannot stop.

he’s slamming the coffin door open, the embalmed body of his sister falling into his arms as he sinks to the stone floor, holding her body close.

he cries like a baby into pale skin, tangling his hands in the familiar curls of his sister’s hair. he knows deep down, that it’s not truly her body, a mess of wax and embalmed organs lying in his grasp, the remnants of her hair blended in with hair that didn’t belong to her. he knows that it’s the body from her mourning, not the decomposing mess they had removed from palatine.

but he seeks out comfort from it nonetheless.

in the morning he will be found, clutching her close, wrists sluggishly bleeding as his body is removed from her tomb, freshly deceased. weeks later, he will be entombed in the same tomb, forever next to his sister.

-

caracalla is left by himself.

there is no one for him to lean on, no comfort to be found in the sprawling halls of palatine as he mourns the loss of his older brother and younger sister. the weight of rome rests upon his shoulders now, cruel and demanding as he plans for geta’s mourning, for his brother’s embalming.

enemies have begun to press into rome, hearing whispers of the back to back loss of the empire. riots break throughout the streets, the people angry with the lack of consideration, with the lack of support and leadership. but caracalla cannot bring himself to face the masses of people, selfishly wishing that he could still hide behind geta’s demanding attitude. to be safe behind his brother’s iron throne and his sister’s popularity with their people.

hallucinations haunt him at night, twisting his preexisting sickness into something crueler.

terror seeps into his bones at all hours of the day, his heart forever seized in terror as he waits for his inevitable return to his siblings. every creak and whisper of wind within palatine sends him into a fit of terror, hiding underneath geta’s bed like a small child, curled around the linens that used to comfort his brother.

it’s with one clamber of a sword that caracalla is sent over the edge.

his body grows heavy with something he cannot explain, head spinning wildly as he curls into the linens deeper, terror spreading through his chest. he can do nothing but grasp the linens tighter as his body grows heavy, the world spinning as the pain in his body grows deeper.

in the morning, the praetorian guard will find him seemingly asleep underneath geta’s bed. the physicians will whisper about a broken heart and stress as he’s carried off to the temple, body being placed upon the same bier that held his brother and sister. caracalla will join them in the tomb, placed on the other side of his sister.

maybe in another life, they are not emperors and empresses, instead they will be small children once more, unburdened by power. every life they will find each other once more, together even in death as they’re reunited again and again. in some lives, they will be siblings, in others they will be classmates or soldiers in a war. in some they will be born to royalty once more, facing the same tragic fate of sudden death. in every life, their sister dies first and they follow suit, forever chasing her through time.

-

but i stay silly! *←said in the most world-weary voice you ever did hear*

"Everyone says that kids these days are terrible. Why though? The truth is, kids are still the same. Parents are the ones who change."

- My accountant professor

*taps microphone 🎙️*

ehm-

tits