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self-shipping-doll13 · 1 hour ago

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Quod fata ferunt | emperor geta x reader.

word count | 2.3k

tags | @self-shipping-doll13

warnings | 18+, NSFW, concubines, blowjobs, porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | Being the favored one of an Emperor came with many privileges, one of them being able to see his most human side.

Under all their power and their might, even powerful ruler are still men at their core.

gifs by @batty4steddie

Geta is worried.

You don’t blame him; you understand.

You were present when he decided upon Acacio’s fate: all it took to turn the common people against their rulers where good words and a fleeting display of gentleness among foes – which ultimately meant nothing. Greater men have begged for mercy within the walls of the Colosseum, their distressed cries ignored by the spectators.

No, it wasn't pity that stirred the crowd: the anger had been simmering in their minds before, biding its time for the perfect opportunity to release itself.

A single withered leaf can ignite an entire town if placed upon an open flame.

Geta understands the significance of this – so he is worried.

It is an uncommon occurrence, which in turn worries you.

He paces around his chambers, twisting and turning the rings on his fingers – gold and gemstones and colored glass that send shimmering hues throughout the rooms.

The same hand he is torturing now condemned a man just moments earlier: and even as it happened, you couldn't help but wonder if Acacio would be the only one to bear the brunt of fate.

“You did what you had to do” you try.

There was no specific reason for why you were taken – dragged – to his quarters, other than the fact that you happened to be near him when the rebellion broke out. Amidst the chaos, two praetorians seized both you and Geta as their comrades protected Caracalla and Macrinus.

Oh, it was an incredible privilege to be invited to witness the fights from the imperial pulvinar: and yet, if you hadn't been busy serving wine to your domine the exact moment the revolt started, you would have likely been left to be trampled over by a raging mob.

Three other favorites of the Emperors were also present, but you haven’t seen them since. They weren't present in the chambers where the twins and their arms-dealer discussed what had occurred. None of them came running when Caracalla erupted into screams, nor when he stormed out of the chambers followed closely by Macrinus.

Alone with your master, you watch as he paces back and forth.

The argument with his brother left Geta in an even worse state, if that is possible. His mind seems to be pulled in two different directions, the distress visible on his face.

He knows some of the words spoken by Caracalla may hold truth, despite being laced with the poison of his illness.

Could he have made a mistake in his decision?

The Gods themselves communicate with him in ways that you could never comprehend – not with words, but through the sacred blood he shares with them. Did he misunderstand their wishes?

Even in his divine state, he may not be immune to the burdens of human existence. After all, despite sharing the same sacred lineage, Caracalla's mind is still plagued with flaws.

“There was nothing else to do” you say again. You feel a bit useless as you parrot his own words back to him, but in this delicate situation you fear saying anything that could be taken as an insult.

Geta is a pleasant companion and a passionate paramour – for those who know how to handle him.

From a young age, you have been taught how to play the lyre. Over time you lost the quick skilled fingers needed to captivate an audience, but the lessons learned still serve you in other ways.

In untrained hands, the instrument produces nothing but a jumble of harsh and unpleasant sounds: only those who have mastered it can create a tune that leaves others yearning for more.

During your initial encounter with Geta, you likened him to a lyre; a rather silly comparison, perhaps, but figuring out how to please him in order to gain his favor felt much like learning to strum the strings at the right moment.

And what a masterful musician you’ve been with him.

Still, the Emperor possesses the fiery temperament of a powerful man not accustomed to receiving criticism. He is quick to boast and show anger - but just as quick to calm down and become merciful again.

I play a lyre made of splintered wood, you think, but quickly push the image aside before a smirk can form on your face.

"You made the right decision" you repeat as you stand up, trying to infuse your voice with comfort.

Your movement catches Geta’s attention. He stops in the middle of the room, lingering, but not quite still. His hands continue to fidget and twitch: he looks at you as if he had completely forgotten of your presence.

Taking advantage of his confusion, you approach him and gently place your hand on his tense arm. “The praetorians are fulfilling their duty. Has any crowd ever been able to sway them?”

There have been past attempts at rebellion by the common people - their leaders too weak, too consumed by hunger to have the chance to succeed.

When Geta finally speaks, he does so while grasping your hand, his gaze fixed on the windows once again. “They listened to that poet’s words. That has never happened before.”

You refuse to acknowledge it, but he is right. It is not uncommon for gladiators to captivate audiences with their skillful use of spears and brutal displays of violence – but never with peace messages or pledges of liberation.

In another life, the man’s perspective would have seemed almost convincing. In this one, you've witnessed far too many good-willed revolutionaries meet a violent end.

“Gentle words can’t win a battle” you gently stroke his cheek, tilting his chin towards you so that he focuses on your face instead of the chaos happening outside. “Gladiators tend not to live long” you add to further placate his mind.

Geta’s eyes move, following your gentle guidance. He leans in and presses his lips against the inside of your wrist, sending shivers down your spine from the warmth of his breath on your skin.

Being the favored one of an Emperor came with many privileges, one of them being able to see his most human side. Under all their power and their might, even powerful ruler are still men at their core. Still, in moments like this one – when he stares at you with such vulnerability and openness, as if your voice is the only thing worth hearing – it becomes harder to contain your feelings to a level deemed acceptable for your position.

“The Gods have spoken through you” you reassure him once again, this time shifting just enough so you can pull him towards the lectus. “To attack you is to declare war on the deities themselves.”

“My brother…” he starts, but his voice fades. His eyes are shrouded in shadows once again; crammed amongst the pillows, he appears almost like a scared child, lying down but still far from being at ease. You gently twirl his ginger locks between your fingers, feigning a calmness that eludes you.

“He is scared” you murmur. You search for words that are reassuring yet respectful; it doesn't matter how much Geta favors you above others, you would still find yourself in the dungeons if you showed Caracalla any less devotion that what his status demanded.

“The mob is loud, but screams are nothing to arrows and swords” as you talk, you gradually lower yourself onto your knees in front of him, never breaking eye contact. “The praetorians are loyal to you and you only, no pretty words can change that.”

He hums, a quiet sound. “What about your pretty words?” he smirks.

A mischievous grin creeps onto your face as you play with the delicate hem of the elegant ivory palla draped over his tunic. “All I say is for your satisfaction.”

From this angle, with white paint masking his features, he bears the same daunting presence as the marble figures that decorate the halls: a god once again, towering over his most devoted disciple.

“All I do, is to please you.”

It’s eerie how greedily his gaze seems to follow even the slightest fraction of your movement, yet he remains seated on the cushions without making a single motion. His breath escapes in short puffs, tickling your forehead.

Now it's your turn to take control: this is the moment when he abandons his all his titlea and becomes nothing but a man.

You remain on your knees between his spread legs, lightly tapping your fingers against his inner thigh - but still, he does not budge.

The challenge in his eyes is unmistakable, as if he's daring you to do something - anything - without his assistance.

As you press your lips against his clothed cock, he lets out a loud grunt, as if there was no fabric between your kiss and his skin. The noise goes straight between your legs, but this evening is not meant for you.

You continue to tease him, kissing your way up and down his thigh, deliberately avoiding his erection. To his credit, he tries his hardest to stifle his groans as best he can, but you can sense his muscles tensing and his patience wearing thin.

You want to consume him. You tug at the fabric of his tunic; this time, he doesn't hesitate and quickly moves into action, removing his own clothes until his hips are bare.

He begins to mention something about comfort, gesturing towards the luxurious pillows that surround him - but you're already nuzzling at his exposed thigh and the words die on his tongue. With one arm slipping beneath his knee, your body presses closer to his, the other hand running along his skin, hot and damp with sweat.

It’s intoxicating how you can make Geta shudder even when you’re taking your time with it. Sometimes, you've questioned whether it's expected of you to just pleasure him as soon as he asks – but in truth, you enjoy taking your time, savoring the sound of his soft moans.

Mouthing at his pale skin, dragging your nails down his legs with enough strenght to leave a trail of soft red marks. You plant a kiss on the head of his cock, pleased to see that precum is already forming at its tip. You eagerly lap at it with your tongue, paying no attention to the way your actions cause him to grip the cushions of the lectus until his knuckles turn pale.

He lets out loud groan as you engulf him completely in the wet, slick warmth of your mouth. His legs shake on either side of you, his hips thrusting forward as your cheeks hollow, tongue curling as you suck him.

He keeps moaning, seemingly unconcerned about how desperate he must sound. Under different circumstances, he may have been more conscious of his tone. Perhaps, if your meeting had occurred after a triumphant war victory or a grand celebration in his honor, he would be as confident and arrogant as you are are accustomed to - but now all he craves is comfort, and you’re sucking him into oblivion.

Tracing the tip of his dick with your tongue causes him to bite down on his lower lip in response; licking along the underside has him closing his eyes and sigh. Your favorite moment, though, is when he's in so deep your chin rests on top of his balls - and he can't help but release a deep, raw moan of pleasure as he tries to thrust more into you.

You can tell he's already close just from this.

You peer out from under your lashes, eyes filled with longing, only to catch Geta's gaze fixed upon you with adoration. His mouth hangs open in a silent whimper, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows saliva. There is no being more magnificent than him in this right moment, neither god nor mortal.

Without warning, his hand shoots out and grabs onto your hair as you become more frantic. You whine, a mixture of pleasure and pain as his fingernails digs into your scalp, and he responds with even louder noises of his own.

His cock rests on the back of your tongue as he lets out rough and guttural groan and empties himself inside your mouth. His head falls back, his eyes fluttering closed.

You swallow it all, ensuring his eyes are back on you before nonchalantly wiping the cum from the side of yout mouth and licking it off your fingers.

Exhausted, you lean your head against his leg and close your eyes.

Geta's breathing is still uneven, but the haze of satisfaction is not enough to make him lose awareness completely – not when Caracalla comes back into the room, shouting.

"Get out!" he growls. The harsh order is directed towards you, still kneeling on the ground, but his gaze is fixed solely on his brother.

In the past few months, there were times when he had lost his temper. Servants, concubines, hosts: everyone was subject to his outbursts of rage – but those were short-lived explosions, like fires on wet sticks.

Caracalla's skin is now covered in red blotches, visible even through the numerous layers of makeup on his face. Whatever words Macrinus exchanged with Caracalla during their private conversation did not seem to have a soothing effect on his temper.

“Get out, leave!” he screams again, pacing back and forth in agitation. This time, Geta helps you to your feet before nodding towards the entrance. His expression is serious once more, a confident facade to hide his underlying concern.

You are dismissed.

A chill runs down your back: you have witnessed the anger of the ill Emperor before, but never in such a furious state. Caracalla is yelling, Geta stands with his hands raised in surrender.

A moment of panic overwhelms you - even greater than the fear induced by the riots outside, but you quicly manage to calm yourself and take a deep breath.

Just as you approach the door, you catch sight of Macrinus once more. He watches the twins from afar, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if ready to intervene at any moment.

He's a strong man; he'll have everything under control.

With that last comforting thought, you turn away and leave.

#🏛️🪷#🙏 my fave once again knicks it out of the park

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