Chapter Text
You wake up in the middle of the night in throbbing pain, and you shift in the bed, grabbing your stomach tightly at a sharp pang that courses through you. You cannot help the whimper that escapes you, as you sit up shakily, feeling ill and wondering if you need to vomit.
And it really is no surprise when Geta stirs beside you. He is an incredibly light sleeper, but that is only expected after an assassination attempt, especially if it was his own brother. You do not want to wake him, but instead let out a pained gasp that has a hand grabbing your bicep tightly.
“W-what?” He is clearly still attempting to wake up properly, but when you look over at him he seems oddly concerned, “What has happened?”
“It is ah nothing,” your hand goes over your stomach, noticing that between your thighs it is sticky and wet.
“It is obviously something,” Geta snaps at you, and you are taken off guard by his anger. His fingers twitch on your arm when you make a little noise of pain.
“It is my cycle,” you say simply, and know that you will have to leave, especially getting blood on his sheets. Men are not known to be able to handle womanly affairs.
“How can I relieve your pain?” He asks, so strangely sincere that you look at him with a furrowed brow.
“There is nothing to do right now,” you highly doubt that Geta has any of the necessary medicines for you.
“I will call on your doctor–“
“It is the middle of the night. I would not want to wake him–“
“You are in pain–“
“I have been in worse,” you say stubbornly between your back and forth, feeling his fingers curl into your arm, nails biting into your skin. You are about to insult him when a wave of pain hits you and you curl forward with a whimper. It is absolutely humiliating to be in such a state in front of him. “Perhaps y-you want me out of your bed.”
“I do not care,” Geta roughly pushes you back down onto the bed, and you stare up at him with surprise at the sudden treatment as he covers your bare body with the blanket. “You will stay here.”
He is gone before you can fully register that he is no longer beside you, and when you turn your head, he is already wrapped in a carmine robe and moving swiftly around the corner. You do not think too fully on it when you quickly become preoccupied with avoiding reacting to each jab of pain that courses through your lower body. You think you might rather suffer an arrow to the thigh again.
“Wake up, barbarian.”
There is a hand patting your cheek, and you had not even realized you had fallen back into sleep, albeit a restless and painful one. You open your eyes and find Geta staring down at you, brows knit in slight worry. His fingers trace your sweaty temple, before he looks to his left in annoyance, “Do not just stand there, you imbecile!”
“I– I am sorry, my Emperor,” there is another man at your bedside peering down at you. “How are you feeling–“
“Obviously horrible!” Geta snaps at the man, “And you call yourself a doctor, I should strip you of your title and–“
“It is fine,” you cut Geta off and lean into his touch to calm him as he sits in the bed beside you. You look back at the doctor, “It has always been painful.”
“I will apply–“
“I will only allow Ravi to treat me,” you do not trust these Roman doctors, and find them more likely to attempt to kill you than help you.
“Yet you will not let me call on him,” Geta’s words are sharp as his jaw is clenched in irritation, “Allow this doctor to–“
“No.”
Geta’s eyes narrow at you and you just stare up at him defiantly. You are sure it is not pleasing to him that you are so clearly defying him in front of a subject. He sighs heavily and turns his attention to the doctor, “Since you are useless, then what may I do?”
“She is dirty, my lord. You should not have to touch her–“
Geta smacks the man across the side of the face angrily, “Out! Get out! Imbecile!”
You just watch above you as Geta yells at the fleeing doctor who really has not done anything wrong at all. His face is slightly pink, robe open and fiery hair disheveled. You wonder why he is so out of sorts.
“I swear I am surrounded by idiots,” Geta hisses, eyes flickering back towards you and likely taking in your terrible state, “The minute the sun rises, I will call upon your gladiator doctor. If you do not die by then.”
You really cannot hold in the gentle laugh that escapes your lips, and you notice the slight widening of his eyes. “I will not die. I have experienced this many times.”
His fingers brush through your hair as he stares down at you, “If you are bleeding too heavily–“
“It is perfectly natural. I can assure you it is just as it is any other time,” you observe him carefully, taking in his tense shoulders and tight jaw, furrowed brow and twitching fingers, “You do not have to be so worried…” You find his concern so strange.
“You could hemorrhage,” Geta says, and you find that he knows almost nothing about cycles. It is not necessarily surprising.
“I do not know where you have been told this, but–“
“Blood everywhere,” Geta’s voice is quiet as his shaky fingers card through your hair, “That is what my father would mutter about in his insane ramblings. It was Caracalla's fault, you know.”
You attempt to sit up, but he keeps you down with his other hand on your chest. You shift as a stab of pain that hits your stomach and Geta’s eyes narrow at you.
“You are acting oddly,” you find him making you uncomfortable. His worry over a simple cycle is completely unexpected. “Would you not want me in another bed?” You almost want to be away from him.
“Someone must keep an eye on you,” Geta is clearly not letting you out of his sight, and you do not know why. He brushes off some hair that sticks to your forehead, “What remedies would your people provide?”
“Medicines,” you say, which only has Geta huffing in annoyance because he cannot give you that until Ravi is here. “But I like to keep warm.” Sometimes Arihat would rest next to you and share body heat, a warm hand on your stomach. “I tend to just let it pass. I do not need a doctor.”
“Yes, well you cannot bleed everywhere, so you will see a doctor,” Geta adjusts his robe, “I will call for more blankets.”
“Just go back to sleep. I am fine,” you reach out beneath the blanket to grab the fabric of his robe and pull him down across the bed. He lets out a noise of surprise while you roll your eyes, “You are going to drive me insane. It is just a cycle!”
“Forgive me for not wanting blood everywhere–“
“Then I will sleep somewhere else–“
“Stupid woman,” Geta pins you down with an arm over your waist when you attempt to get out of the bed. “You will stay here.”
Your head adjusts to the left so you are able to properly look at him, and find a strange mix of fear and something on his face. He holds you tightly against him, as your eyes stay locked with his. And it is an odd sort of feeling to be held by Geta. It does not feel as if it is for you, only him.
“You look ill.”
“So do you,” Geta deflects your concern, that is not even really concern– just an observation. “You will tell me if you feel worse.”
“It is no cause for concern. I have told you this.” you still wince and his arm tightens around you. You do not think there is much you are able to do when Geta is so clearly distraught, so you lay there uncomfortably– in many ways– and stare at each other.
“Forgive me for not being familiar with your feminine woes,” Geta says, sounding incredibly irritated by this entire situation even if there is still fright flickering in his round brown eyes. He almost looks like some pathetic puppy, and far more distraught than he should be.
You curl up slightly at a harsh cramp, not meaning your head to press up against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. Geta’s arm is firm around your waist as you lay against him, breathing in the scent of wine and the olive oil he bathed in last night.
But being so close without the distractions of sex, you are forced to fully breathe him in, and find a faint roughness to his scent, an earthiness– like dirt but in a comforting way. It reminds you of planting seeds in your garden during the summer. It should not be so comforting. He should not be so comforting.
“You smell like dirt.”
“Excuse me?” Geta sounds absolutely insulted.
“It is not bad…just unexpected,” you are not quite sure what even compelled you to tell him this, but it is easier to focus on his comforting scent than the pains in your body…and upsetting him is still enjoyable.
“I fail to see how smelling of dirt is not a terrible thing.”
“Like being outside in the summer,” you say softly, letting each inhale soothe you, “You should not be so warm.”
Geta does not say anything, but you are not sure he even knows what he can say to such a strange accusation. It is not a compliment, but it is clearly not quite an insult. He ultimately releases a small huff of annoyance, “You are delirious from pain.”
That does not stop his arm from tightening around you, as you are pulled closer against him. It is so strange to be within his arms. You would rather he be fucking you, even if you know he will not in this state.
You still kiss his chest, skin exposed in his open robe, because this tender moment feels stifling and wrong. Geta’s hand slides to your hip, lips pressing into your hair. He is so responsive it is almost laughable.
You try not to think about how you are too.
“Truly desperate for my cock even in your pain,” Geta’s tone is smug, and you feel his lips curl into a smirk against your hair.
“I am desperate for you to keel over and die,” you say, lips brushing his skin and he huffs in amusement.
“I am curious to know what your blood tastes like,” Geta sounds unsure, as if maybe he should not have said anything at all.
“That is filthy,” you cannot even imagine such an act, and gasp in surprise when he pulls the cover from your body and exposes you, fabric just barely below your cunt. “Geta,” your voice is a warning, but he does not seem to care as his hand grabs one of your breasts tightly.
“You should not deny the Emperor what he wants,” his thumb and index finger roll your nipple into a little hardened bud, pinching slightly and making you gasp. You are especially sensitive in this state, and you can almost sense his satisfaction at this discovery. “Kiss me, barbarian.”
You are not quite sure what compels you to listen to him, but you still adjust your head so your lips can meet his, and Geta wastes no time pushing his tongue into your mouth and exploring every crevice as if it is the first time. You moan into the kiss when his nails scrape across your chest and down your stomach, digging into your flesh and likely leaving red marks. But you tense when his fingers brush your cunt, fingers barely grazing you. It really is a completely vulgar thing, as he touches the crimson wetness between your thighs, spreading it across you and using the blood to smoothen the glide of his fingers on your clit, twisting and applying delicate pressure.
You kiss him just a little bit harder, unsure of how you are even supposed to respond to such a thing as this. But Geta is an insane man, so should you really be surprised? And as two of his fingers slide inside of you, your back arches from the sensitivity of your walls, the drag of his fingertips have you shivering.
“So sensitive,” Geta says sweetly against your lips, “So wet.”
His words have you wanting to run, just as they did in the bath. It is such a strangely intimate thing when he speaks to you like this in the throes of passion, and just as uncomfortable in simple conversation. You just bite his bottom lip harshly in retaliation, but in response he only curls his fingers inside of you and you cannot fight the loud moan that escapes you.
Geta fucks you with his fingers, sinful squelching sounds almost too loud in the room, as you fight the pathetic noises that attempt to leave your lips. His thumb rubs in little circles around your clit as the fingers inside of you spread, touching every inch of you. You feel a vibrating hum settling in the pits of your stomach, and your hand moves to curl in his hair tightly, tugging it violently as your teeth click against his harshly. He groans, and you wonder if it is just from the feel of you around his fingers.
“Are you close, barbarian?” Geta breathes, breaths hot as it mixes with yours. lips moving against your with each word.
You just spread your legs, completely against your will, but it seems to encourage Geta to increase the speed of his hand, tips of his fingers dragging against the top of your walls and pressing on the soft spot inside your cunt that has you whining. It’s so completely embarrassing. His hips press against your side, and you are not quite sure what it is exactly– perhaps that he is erect just from the blood on his fingers– but you come so suddenly you release a moan that is far louder than you have meant to be. Your cunt spasms around his fingers as he fucks you through your orgasm, your fingers twisted in his hair and breathing harshly into his mouth.
Geta removes his fingers from you and you whine at the loss, and you are in shock as he pulls away to slip both digits into his mouth, blood smearing across his lips, and appears as if he is completely savoring you.
It is filthy, so absolutely
- - -
Filthy. Geta thinks, but cannot seem to get enough of the tangy taste and lingering of iron that drips down the back of throat while your bloody come mixes with his saliva as he swallows. He thinks it is as close to gutting you open and drinking your blood as he can get, groaning just at the thought of it dripping from your pussy.
Geta is still concerned, but the realization that your pain has seemed to disappear is reassuring. You tell him that this is only natural for you, but what is stopping your body from turning against you and you bleed out right here beside him?
He still blames Caracalla for killing their mother– tearing her open– he tries to force the thoughts from his head.
Instead, Geta barely finishes licking his fingers clean before he is climbing on top of you, spreading your legs wide and sliding his cock inside of you, so warm, wet and tight. He captures your lips in another kiss, and you gasp from the taste of yourself on his tongue. He knows that this is completely taboo, and that even if he indulges in sin, thinks that this is an entirely new level of debauchery. But that doctor had been so infuriating; you are not dirty– even if you are a barbarian. Does that imbecile truly believe that the Emperor of Rome would ruin himself by allowing a dirty whore in his bed? You are gods-sent for him. He deserves to have you even at your weakest.
Geta thrusts carefully, because he does not want to completely harm you; he does not want to disrupt anything happening inside of you. But you are not wincing or groaning in pain, and instead your arms and legs wrap around his body. He is clearly helping you, and imagine if the doctors knew that this was such a simple remedy.
His ravenous kisses do not match the slow speed of his hips, but thinks that the way each veiny ridge of his cock stretches your walls matches the intensity. His teeth scrape against yours, tongues sliding at each swap of spit that begins to taste less of come and more of you. Geta finds any taste of you addicting.
He cages your head in between his forearms, his robe spreading across both your bodies and keeping you locked in warmth. Gods, Geta cannot get enough of you, he thinks, as your cunt flutters around him. He groans into your mouth, shifting the angle of his hips to nudge the head of his cock up and deeper inside of you. Your moan carries past his lips and he wants to keep the noise forever.
He feels his stomach tense as you seem to tighten almost impossibly around him, and Geta fucks you a bit faster, but still attempts gentleness. He does not think he could be able to handle seeing the way your blood coats his cock, fears it would ruin his mind completely and he will be overtaken by the sin, but just imagining carmine liquid staining his porcelain skin is enough to have him unable to fight back his release, filling you with thick spurts of come that do not seem to end, as Geta’s fists curl and he bites tongue, a rush of iron in his mouth. Your blood is not enough; he needs to hold your beating heart in his hands and pump the life into you himself.
“Ah, gods,” Geta groans deeply, panting against your lips even if he has hardly exerted himself. He is overwhelmed by having you in this moment, like this. He does not want to remove himself from you, but ultimately slides his cock out of you, not bothering to wipe the blood from himself as he moves slightly to lay down beside you. He keeps his robe over you and his body pressed against yours, a hand on your stomach. You have said that warmth alleviates your pain, so what better way than his own body? It is quiet for a moment, but then you shift slightly, and Geta’s anxieties return, “Are you still in pain?” Has he hurt you?
“No,” you sound a bit surprised, and Geta smirks because why would you even need an idiotic doctor anymore? “I suppose I am not.”
“Then you should rest,” Geta says, even if he will stay awake to make sure you do not hemorrhage. You have said it is not something he needs to worry about, but he has a royal education and you do not. He does not think you know what you are talking about.
You turn slightly, and he cradles you against him, pressing his face into your hair and breathing you in. You smell of an ocean breeze, which is so strange, but with your salty skin and ocean eyes, does not think he should be surprised. Geta keeps a warm hand on your stomach, paying attention to each of your breaths as they even out into sleep, listening for any hitch in your breath or pained twitch of your body.
He does not sleep the rest of the night.
•
Geta sits at the dining table while the gladiator doctor checks over you. Just as he had said, he had called for Ravi the minute the sun had risen, and is just glad that the man is smart enough to know not to keep him waiting, arriving far quicker than Geta had expected.
He cannot hear what the two of you are talking about, speaking in hushed whispers, and it is only irritating because he thinks you do not want him to know what you are discussing with the doctor. He wonders if you are talking about him, or if you are just concerned about your brethren. He despises the obsession you have for them. There are no games, and the gladiators are fed. You should not worry about those slaves.
He watches as Ravi gives you something to drink, eyes narrowing when your face scrunches up in distaste at the flavor, and he wonders why these imbeciles have not figured out how to make their medicines not so repulsive. The man touches your stomach gently and Geta’s fingers curl into fists, “How is she?”
Ravi turns, looking nervous as he takes in Geta’s irritated expression and tense posture, “She is fine, Emperor Geta. She seems to be having a healthy cycle, albeit slightly more heavy than a typical one.”
“So what will you do?”
“I recommend rest, wine, a light diet of fruits and vegetables,” Ravi says, “I can apply ligatures and insert a pessary to lessen the blood flow.”
Geta shakes his head, “No pessary.” How would he be able to be inside of you if he was restricted? And he has already discovered that he does more for you than a doctor, so perhaps Ravi is not even needed. You quirk an eyebrow at him, but refrain from saying anything. He snaps his fingers hastily, “Well hurry up and get out. She needs rest.”
“Yes, Emperor Geta,” Ravi bows his head respectfully, and quickly begins your treatment, while Geta goes to call for breakfast.
“Brother!”
Geta turns his head in annoyance, fully emerging from his door and closing it firmly behind himself. It would not do for Caracalla to discover you. Especially like this, he thinks, as he takes in the disheveled state of the shorter male. He thinks that neither of them had slept, only Caracalla is clearly in a drug and alcohol fueled haze– pupils blown and reeking of wine.
“I feel as if I have not seen you–”
“Is that why it seems as if you are going to barge your way into my room? I have told you to respect my space,” Geta says with annoyance. It was endearing when they were little, but Caracalla is a grown man who should know better than to intrude on him.
“I simply wanted to see you,” Caracalla frowns, crystalline blue eyes shining wetly, and Geta sighs heavily. It is very likely that the younger twin might go into a rage very quickly after what Geta calls his crying stage.
“Let us have breakfast brother,” Geta attempts to placate him, because he truly does not think he will be able to get Caracalla away from him. It really has been too long since they have spent a significant amount of time together and it is likely making his brother anxious. “We can go to the terrace and eat.”
“Really?” Caracalla asks, voice small, as if he is so moved by a simple invitation to breakfast, “And Dundus?”
Geta hates that filthy monkey, but still nods, “Go get her and meet me on the terrace.”
Caracalla nods excitedly, even if it looks likely that he will fall over into sleep just from the exhaustion of an all night party. Geta is hoping that breakfast will be enough to push him into slumber. “Yes, brother,” Caracalla is quickly rushing back towards his own rooms.
Geta sighs heavily once again and turns towards the guards, “Bring her breakfast and have the doctor provide her company until I return. I do not want her on her own.”
“Yes, Emperor Geta,” the guard bows his head, and if he thinks anything, knows not to say it.
Geta loves his brother, but he is especially bitter after the events of last night, and how watching you in pain reminded him of their mother’s death. He really thinks that Caracalla is the absolute last person that he wants to see right now, but for the sake of keeping you hidden, must entertain his twin. He runs a hand through his hair before patting it down nicely, and making his way to the terrace.
If you bleed out then he will have that doctor’s head.