Double-Edged Sword - "what's Mine Is Yours"

Double-Edged Sword - "what's mine is yours"

A/N: okay I am truly just writing this for the vibes so if it seems a bit silly, that’s why 😌 I did briefly go back and edit this, but I don’t expect it to be perfect, so if there’s any mistakes, that’s on me! Just remember that Geta is the biggest spoiled brat and he deserves to be put in his place :3 thank you @johnnyst0rm & @magicalmysterytour13 for once again listening to me yap about these two and further encouraging my brain rot <3

wc: 2.9k

Summary: Geta gets knocked down a few pegs by his empress because he’s a whiny spoiled brat who deserves to be forced on his knees 🙏🏻

Warnings: no smut, but you know they fucked nasty after this, heavy degradation kink (he is rock fucking hard make no mistake) belittling, teasing, reader is so mean, tiny mention of a wound, Geta is the biggest simp, no mention of age but reader and Geta are in their 20’s, reader has no physical descriptions, reader is Egyptian and a direct descendant of Cleopatra, Caracalla gets his own warning, DONDUS!! +18 Minors dni!

Pairing | Emperor Geta x empress!reader

translations:

deliciae - darling

anaticula - duckling

quod meum est, tuum est semper - what’s mine is yours, always

The air was hot, almost suffocating, and the sun's harsh and unforgiving rays beat down upon Geta’s back mercilessly. Gone are his royal garbs; a sign of his endless power and wealth. His laurels were not present upon his golden ringlets, but his rings remained, glinting in the sunlight. The thin fabric of his tunic clung to his sweat stained skin uncomfortably. There was a nagging tightness building in his throat—likely caused by the bone dry air, or perhaps it was the way that the woman directly across from him; his empress, was observing him like he was her next meal. His wife was a force to be reckoned with and he quickly learned that well into their arranged marriage. 

“Perhaps you would be better suited and flexible if you rid yourself of your clothing, husband,” she lilted teasingly, eyes gleaming and her lips quirked into a grin from where she stood opposite of him. 

“With my Praetorians present?” he snarked. A once soft gaze now darkened and burned in her direction like the blazing sun above. “I am flexible as is. The air—it is suffocating. We should rest,” he suggested calmly and dropped his sword against his thigh. The already heavy blade felt even heavier from his consistent exertion. So much for the people of Rome believing that he was some god.

“Our Praetorians.” she was swift to correct him, her smirk turning into a slight scowl. Her own sword dropped to her side as she approached him, sandals kicking up dusty earth beneath her wake. She walked with a confidence that could not be taught; she was born with it. 

“That’s what I said the first time, wife,” he huffed out a breath, letting his posture relax for a moment as a reprieve. But upon her approach he stiffened, standing tall once more. 

“It is unwise for you to play games when I possess a weapon in my hand, Geta,” she acquiesced, tutting under her breath. The blade glinted like liquid silver under the sun as she rose the very edge of it upwards to his face. The tip of sharpened steel rested under his chin. She leaned in and the playfulness in her eyes was replaced with something serious; something that should have intimidated him. “Do you surrender?” 

The tension was apparent, sizzling and crackling like wild flames from a fire. The taste of it upon his tongue was thrilling in itself. The slight fear of the unknown egged him to continue his own taunting game. 

How far will she take it this time? He mused to himself

“I am an emperor,” he hissed through clenched teeth, umber eyes darkening. He raised his freehand to cast her blade aside. “I will not surrender.” 

She giggled wildly at his attempt to throw her off guard, or to perhaps knock her down a few pegs. Her husband was less of an emperor, and more of a mere boy playing dress up. 

“The bead of sweat dripping from your brow, and the slight quiver of your lips says otherwise.” she leaned in, watching the way his eyes flickered with hidden uncertainty as she slowly and deliberately dragged the edge of the blade to rest against the side of his neck, right against a protruding vein. All it would take to spill his blood was a bit of calculated pressure. She wondered if his blood would bleed gold, like the laurels he wore, or if it would be the darkest shade of crimson. “Surrender,” she whispered. 

The stationed Praetorians had already begun to withdraw their own blades, but one silent raise of the emperor's hand in their direction, had them sheathing their blades with an audible clink.

“Kiss me,” he challenged, dipping his head so that his forehead would come to rest upon hers. That same hand that was previously hovering in the air, came to rest along her exposed lower back, ringed fingers curling against hot skin. 

“Surrender,” she repeated and stepped back, watching in amusement as his body seemed to work on autopilot, or perhaps there was an invisible golden thread that tethered them together. The slightest movement had him trailing her like a wounded, stranded, puppy. 

“Kiss me,” he tightened his grip around her, attempting to hold her in place, but she was swift like a lioness, and he the cowardly lion. 

“Surrender and I will do more than just kiss you, your majesty.” A tempting prospect.

And then he was yanking her towards him, using his own height to his advantage. He could feel the slight sting of the blade scraping against his exposed collarbone, but he paid no mind as their chests flushed tightly together leaving no distance between them. 

“Kiss me,” he demanded. “Your emperor commands you.” 

Her brows rose in amusement at his command. “As you wish, big boy.”

He stalled at her crassness, his mouth felt as dry and coarse as the sand beneath his feet. His mind was spinning, and he imagined it was because of the unforgiving heat, but he knew deep down it was caused by her; always by her. “You are the most vexing, deliciae,” he drawled under his breath. 

For a moment it appeared as if she was giving in, that she was surrendering (finally) when her freehand came to rest upon his smooth jaw, free of any stubble. She brushed her thumb tenderly under his kohl rimmed eyes, watching as his long lashes fluttered shut from her uncharacteristically gentle touch. The moment was fleeting as her hand dropped from his face and snaked between their tightly pressed bodies. It took her no time to find what she was searching for. 

Too easy. She mused. 

His breath hitched from the back of his throat at her sudden touch, and he felt like a man turned to putty in her embrace. His loins were set aflame and his knees threatened to buckle. 

“Please kiss me, Empress,” he begged, not caring how pathetic he sounded.

“Much better, husband.” She pressed a quick peck to his lips, chapped yet pillowy and all hers. And when he attempted to deepen the kiss, she was slipping from his embrace like a serpent, her sword left his skin entirely and she reveled at the sound of a low growl creeping up his throat at her swift departure. 

He raised his sword in her direction, but she was ready, and their blades met in the middle creating an X formation, one that she leaned through the gap at the top of the blades, her throat threatening to scrape sharpened steel, but she was not afraid. 

“You play a dirty game, wife,” he sneered. “Such a cruel, cruel, cruel lover you can be.” 

She pouted, fluttering her lashes to appear innocent. “Me? Cruel? Oh, dear husband, you are so…dramatic.” She giggled, the sound ringing in his ears. Her tone was like saccharine honey; tooth achingly sweet.

“No more games, please. Let me embrace you,” he pleaded, dropping his sword with a heavy thunk into the sand below. 

At the silent gesture of his surrender, she dropped her sword ceremoniously, and immediately invaded his space, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him properly. 

“They do this everyday,” Caracalla chuckled from the shade of a tree nearby, Dondus perched happily upon his shoulder. “They are like two flames,” he said with a shrill giggle. “Hers burns much hotter than my brothers, but shh! Do not allow him to become privy to such things. His ego could never handle such a burning truth.” The small monkey chittered in response, as if he understood the words leaving Caracalla’s mouth. “Is something amusing to you, Antonius?” She pulled away from her husband's embrace, craning her neck to address her brother in law directly. Even from a fair distance, she could make out his rouged painted cheeks turning brighter, almost as red as his fire-tinged hair. “Ignore him,” Geta said snappily in an attempt to draw her attention back to him and him alone. He did not need his twin interfering. He was not yet ready to part from her enticing and rather addictive embrace. Fuck the opium and wine, no vice compared to the one standing before him, or what lay between the Empress of Rome’s thighs.

She pulled away entirely and bent down to grasp the hilt of her sword once more and lifted it from the sand with ease. She admired the craftsmanship that went into forging a blade such as this one. As if it was far more intriguing than her brooding husband standing nearby. “I wasn’t finished with you, wife,” the emperor muttered in annoyance at her deliberate choice to deny him. “Oh,” she mused, grinning, “I was quite finished with you.” she twisted the hilt of the blade, effortlessly twirling it in her grasp as if it weighed nothing. “I am tired,” he sighed. “My limbs ache, and the baths are sounding awfully inviting, yes? Come join me.” “No.” Another wild cackle sung from Caracalla and Geta’s face burned bright red at her unwise decision to deny him, her husband–unless she had so boldly forgotten who he was. “No?” he echoed, eyes narrowing in on her. He ignored his own sword on the ground and stepped towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. “I am requesting you to join me in the baths, and you will obey my request.” “No, I will not. I do not wish to attend the baths with you. I know what you seek of me, and I will not give it so willingly, your majesty. Not after you have so coldly disrespected me.” “Dis–excuse me?!” he exclaimed, marching forward till the tip of her blade rested against his sternum, halting his haste-filled movements. “You heard me, husband. As empress of Rome, I refuse your request.” “Drop your blade, wife. Drop it this instant. You will not defy me. I entertained your little game, but no more. I am your husband, your emperor, and you will fucking attend to me when I request you to.”  She pressed the blade further into his covered chest, challenging him to drive himself through it, as if he actually possessed the humility to die at her hand. “And I am your empress. You cannot command me like one of your compliant subjects. I am not yours to command.” His eyes narrowed further, and the veins in his neck became more prominent as his umber eyes darkened to the same shade of kohl that lined his waterline. “Drop. The. Blade. Now,” he said in a low tone, sending pleasant shivers down her spine. She knew his threat was baseless, that he was like a toddler not getting its way and throwing a tantrum over it. A typical spoiled brat that grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. 

She bowed her head in a submissive motion and slowly the blade lowered till it was dropped completely and fell at her feet, kicking up grains of sand that landed upon her skin that was not covered by the smooth leather of her sandals.

Unbeknownst to him, she had him right where she wanted him. Men, such simple creatures at the core. She walked towards him, head still bowed and her eyes cast towards the ground. He half expected her to fall to her knees and kiss the jeweled rings that hugged his fingers, but instead, she crept around him—her movements like a serpent. 

“My little…anaticula,” she purred and rested her hands against his shoulders, squeezing the tense muscles there. Her lips were at the shell of his ear, her natural scent mixed with perspiration, tension, and flowery perfume oils attacked his senses like a virus. 

“I hate it when you call me that,” he grumbled, turning his head to the side so he could look upon her. 

“But it is accurate,” she giggled, soft and sweet like a siren's song. “You are like a little duckling, Geta.” 

He huffed out a breath, muttering something in latin that she couldn’t quite make out. “Please join me in the baths, deliciae.” 

“No.” She dropped her hands from his shoulders, her presence no longer lingering behind him and she was already walking away. 

“Gods,” he whispered to himself. “Help me.” He shook his head and stumbled after her, ringed fingers grasping her forearm and yanking her back suddenly. She whirled around, chest flushed against him. 

“Not until you apologize,” she said plainly. 

“For what?!” He growled, frustration laced in his tone at her vagueness. What was the reason for him to apologize? If anything, she should be apologizing to him!

“Gods! Have you not listened to a single word that has left my lips?! You disrespected me!” she yelled, shoving at him with everything she had, but he was like marble; solid and unmoving. 

“How have I disrespected you?! Tell me!” he demanded. 

She scoffed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes till they would inevitably get stuck in the back of her skull. “You referred to the Praetorians as yours, and not ours.” 

“You’re still on about that?!” he laughed bitterly, shaking his head as if what she had said was truly something inherently crazy and out of touch with reality. 

“Get on your knees,” she commanded and her authoritative tone, and embolden choice of words threw him off guard just enough that she was able to slip from his steel like embrace, again.

He blinked hard as if he could not believe the words leaving her mouth. “No. I’m not getting on my fucking knees for you.” 

“No?” she tilted her head in a condescending manner, pursing her lips in displeasure. 

“No,” he echoed defiantly. “Nor will I be apologizing for something so…trivial.” 

“You are the biggest spoiled brat I have ever met. I Cannot believe I married such a whiny little boy who can’t endure a little respect for his wife,” she scoffed. “Not as if I am what will continue the future of Rome, hm? What would your father think?” she sneered. “I believe he’d be rather disappointed and embarrassed to find his prodigy son acting in such a manner. And at a simple request? The shame.” 

His face paled and his jaw clenched so tightly, he could feel a dull ache begin to bloom from the tension. Ever-so slowly he began to lower himself on his knees before her, head bowed submissively.

His twin could not believe his eyes at the sight of his kin on his knees, in the sand, as if he were a common beggar on the street. 

“Forgive me, Empress,” he whispered, biting down on the soft flesh of his inner cheek. 

She looked over her shoulder, peering at Caracalla with a knowing grin. “Your brother is all bark and no bite, Calla.” She looked back down at her husband, her left hand coming to rest against the crown of his head possessively. “Look at me, Publius.” 

“Why are you doing this,” he hissed, refusing to look her directly in the eyes. 

“Because I can.” 

He was silent as he tasted a burst of copper along his tongue from gnawing on his cheek too hard. His teeth were stained in claret, the iron taste in his mouth was unsettling, but he swallowed thickly, adams apple bobbing from the motion.

“You’re humiliating me.” 

“That would require humility. You don’t possess that do you? ‘The Great Emperor Publius Septimius Geta,” she mocked, laughing cruelly. “If only the empire could see you now. On your knees. Weak, submissive, and in your true form. Just a little boy playing dress up. A pretend Caesar.”

His claws were sharp, but hers, hers were sharper. She always followed through with intent, and he would fall back into his cowardice. It was like a dance they performed, moving in sync and anticipating one another’s next move. She was cruel, yes, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Her cruelty and mean-heartedness was like an elixir, or a drug, as Caracalla would claim. 

“She’ll be the cause of your demise, brother, she’ll no sooner kill you if you are not cautious,” the younger twin whispered to his brother the night of their wedding, an opulent affair that spared no expense. A marriage arranged by their father before his untimely death to ensure the longevity of the Septimius line that was now binded with Egyptian, royal blood. It was a pairing that the gods approved and expressed joy over by bathing Rome's people in abundant wealth and prosperity. Crops flourished, gold flowed like the Tiber, and Geta was blessed with marrying the most beautiful and alluring woman he would ever meet in his lifetime. 

So, yes, she was cruel, but in her cruelty he knew that if his life were ever in true danger, she’d rip out the very throats of his enemies and spill their blood along the pristine marble floor in his name. She’d gut them, one by one if any harm were to ever fall upon his golden head. And he, well, he would do the same for her. She brought out the violence in him that simmered in his heart like a dormant volcano. She encouraged that side of him, but she never shied away from reminding him of his place beneath her. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me the words I desire to hear from your lips in your native tongue, husband. And look me in the eyes when you speak them,” she said sternly, an edge of softness in her tone, but it was barely noticeable as she tightened her fingers grip around golden tendrils. 

He slowly lifted his head to address her directly, umber eyes softer, more deer like in appearance to their previous blackened look minutes ago. “quod meum est, tuum est semper,” he murmured. (What’s mine is yours, always.) 

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