Draw Slow When You Take From Me
Pairing: Vampire!Geta x female!reader
Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI. Seriously. Blood! (this is about vampires, so), mention of the menarche, consumption of the menarche, sex.
Word Count: 4.0k
A/N: It's finally here. This is just my immediate thoughts that poured out when I first started thinking about this AU. I would always be willing to explore different things, perhaps pre-wife, or even other household members. Mine is sweet, mostly. If you're looking for something more... well, more, check out @prettycalla 's contribution. I promise it's so amazing (better than mine!). I also owed some people a Geta period thing, so I combined the two. I apologize in advance.
Geta looked down at you as you slept. He could hear every heartbeat, each individual ventricle pulsing, valves closing, a wet symphony. Waves breaking. Your steady breathing filled the room. He could smell the jasmine oil you dabbed behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts.
He was far too hungry to linger tonight.
“Mmm, come to bed,” you spoke sluggishly, reaching out to tug on his robes.
“Later, mea lux,” he smiled, a deep pit in his stomach. It grew the closer he got, but he shoved it down so he could lean over and nuzzle at your cheek. He could smell the sunlight soaked into your skin. So tempting. “After our meetings.”
After the feed. While the bloodlust raged.
“Please,” you begged, your hand gripping the back of his neck to try to keep him there.
A brief flash of panic. His mouth watered and he swallowed it down.
“I am busy, and you are…” He gently pulled your hand away and lifted his head, his eyes dark. “Distracting.”
Eyes dark, but unmistakably full of love for his new blushing bride.
A tamed shark.
“You will keep your word?” You smiled up at him, tone playful. “I do not care the hour.”
He kept his smile soft, lips shut tight. A nod. As he moved away, he allowed his mouth to open, the sign of his affliction not visible to you.
“I will keep it.”
Geta grimaced, looking down at the woman currently slung across his lap. He could see her impatience, staring up at him out of the corner of her eyes, stretching her scarred neck out.
Inviting his thirst. Yet his stomach soured.
“Brother, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Caracalla giggled, pushing yet another of his concubines from his lap, blood fully covering the lower half of his face, his neck, staining his robes. He feasted like he was starved. “You keep on like this and you will slip up.”
A mocking laugh at Geta’s efforts.
Geta let out a frustrated growl, his anger at his brother’s suggestion pushing his muscles into action. The woman let out a panicked yelp as Geta hauled her up to his mouth, his teeth sinking in unkindly.
As the hot, sweet liquid slid down his throat, he gulped eagerly, forgetting his earlier apprehension. He clung to her, his grip so tight it would leave marks. Even though the concubine occasionally winced, her face soon settled into a soft, blissful expression.
A nice trick. A gentle fever. A distraction from the threat of impending death.
The woman’s hand slid up his thigh, hoping for more from him than his hunger for her blood. A jolt of revulsion twisted his spine and he pushed her down to the marble floor, her neck still weeping.
“E-Emperor?”
“Leave us,” he ordered, waving her away. She left reluctantly.
“You know, maybe you should give some more thought to turning her,” Caracalla suggested, moments before sinking his canines into another waiting neck.
A relieved sigh. A hand gripping his robes.
Geta turned away, Caracalla’s words echoing in his head.
No. Never.
The thought of never hearing your heart race for him again, never being able to leech the warmth from your skin into his?
Unthinkable. Not worth considering.
“Try not to kill anyone tonight, please,” Geta stressed to his voracious twin. “Silence is expensive.”
“I make no promises, brother,” Caracalla grinned, looking every bit a monster as he lapped at a still-bleeding neck. “That dreadful meeting worked up a mighty appetite.”
Geta stood, wiping at his mouth, feeling ill and far from sated. But he would not feed on another. He could handle himself just fine.
Discomfort. Cramping low. A glance down confirmed your fears.
There would be no heir this month.
It was hard not to grieve, even if it never existed. It was your one responsibility now, and you had hit your first stumbling block.
Juno had not given you her favor.
The realization was uncomfortable, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Perhaps your offerings were not enough, too humble to wish for the child of an Emperor to take root.
For a moment you allowed yourself to lay there, knowing that getting up would be an ordeal in and of itself.
Geta could come back at any moment. He would surely want a clean bed to sleep in. It needed to be stripped. You needed to bathe. So you moved into action, despite the late hour.
As you worked, you wondered what Geta would make of this. Would he be upset? You honestly weren’t sure.
During your short time here at Palatine Hill, things were certainly unusual. People warned you that there was illness festering in the palace. That there was something strange going on. Dark rituals, or illicit affairs. The usual fantastical gossip. They told you that your husband-to-be was slowly being driven mad by his brother’s shocking antics.
That at least seemed closer to the truth.
But you didn’t believe any of it until you were forced to marry under the moon, a quiet ceremony with minimal guests. Your new brother had been irritable all evening, Geta having to pause his conversation with you to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. More than once, he himself had disappeared to retrieve Caracalla more wine, instead of asking a servant nearby for a topping off.
And there were these late night meetings every few days, meetings that you were not to attend. Meetings that lasted quite a while. It would be enough to worry any new bride.
Adultery was forbidden, yes, but would that truly stop an Emperor?
No. He’s shown you nothing but love and devotion. Even if he sometimes grows irritable, or will not walk in the sunlight, he has fulfilled all of his husbandly duties, quite well. And on the nights he returns from his meetings, he is insatiable–
No. Focus. Change your clothes. Strip the bed.
All the ruined linen was carried off by a waiting servant just outside the door, replaced with clean, fresh bedding.
Now, to bathe.
As you turned to leave, Geta stepped into the room, his dark eyes big and searching. Nostrils flaring.
“Mea lux, are you alright?” His voice was strained. Muscles tensed in his neck as he took slow steps closer.
“Yes,” you answered, building up your nerve to tell him there would be no heir this month. “Geta, I–”
He interrupted you, eyes raking over you, voice frantic and unsteady. “Do you have a cut? Where is it coming from?”
Your face felt hot as his hands tugged and pulled at your limbs, inspecting your skin. “My love, what?”
He sank to his knees before you, hands bunched up in the fabric of your slip. A moan fell from his lips and he pressed his forehead into your belly, breathing heavily. Your hands attempted to bring his head up, but he fought you. It was like trying to bend a metal bar.
“Geta?”
A low rumble in his throat. Hunger stirring. Salivating.
He did not consider this.
“You bleed.”
Heat traveled up your neck, to your ears, your face. “Yes. I’m sorry, Geta.”
“I do not care about heirs,” he muttered, his face pressing into the fabric of the slip, his inhales deep and languid.
Large hands released the fabric, sliding around to grip the back of your thighs, hauling you in closer, if that was possible.
Your hands found his shoulders and you very nearly fell over. “Geta!”
He hugged your legs, his face dipping lower, and suddenly you were trying to fight him again, your self-consciousness not able to tolerate this.
“Geta, let me go, I am unclean,” you hissed at him.
“I cannot,” he whined.
“What do you mean? Let me go!”
His grip only grew tighter as you squirmed, his face pressing closer. Testing his will.
He promised himself he wouldn’t ever let this get to you. He wouldn’t allow Caracalla’s carelessness to infect you. You were pure, his. He loved you.
And yet here you were, able to give him such a gift.
He needed it.
Each inhale full of iron sent a buzzing through his brain, a wave of pleasure he felt all the way down to his toes. Even when he fed, he never felt like this, so lost to it.
Weak.
“I cannot control this urge, I am sorry, mea lux.” Pain was laced through his voice. “Please, you must go.”
“Geta?” Soft hands pressed at his cheeks, his shoulders.
“Go!” he yelled, pushing you away from him.
Mild fear gripped you, not used to seeing him like this. Something was very wrong. But he was resolute, unable to look you in the eye. You obeyed your husband, taking a few steps back towards the door.
“Wait,” he begged, reaching out for you.
As you neared him, he struggled to breathe, opting to instead open his mouth, the smell overwhelming.
Clarity, then.
His hands shot up defensively. “Do not listen to me. Go, get out of here. I cannot be trusted!”
He could hear vividly how your heart raced, a different rhythm than what he was used to. Too fast. Uneven, as if it were scrambling to escape your chest.
“Geta, are you alright? Do you need–”
“Go!” he roared, getting to his feet.
“I-I will go get Caracalla–”
You were swept up and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed.
“No,” he growled, his eyes black as pitch. “You will not go near him.”
“I won’t,” you placated, hands on his arms.
Guilt coursed through him, even as he enjoyed the erratic racing of your heart. It was a miracle he hadn’t already fed, the aroma enough to seriously strain his convictions.
“I am sorry,” he sighed, his nose pressing against your cheek, moving down, pausing over your pulse, tongue slipping out to lick your skin.
No.
“Geta, are you unwell?”
A pained sound was torn from his throat, but he did not answer. His hands slid down until they reached the edge of the slip. He parted your thighs easily, fingers sliding up, your mumbled warnings not heard by him.
Wet. Warm. Viscous.
He pushed off the mattress and brought his fingers in front of his eyes, his breath leaving him in delight.
A relieved moan poured out of him as he slipped his red fingers between his lips, eyes falling shut.
Heat filled your face at the sight. You had always been told that the Emperors were a bit… unusual. But surely they didn’t mean this.
“Mea lux,” he drawled, bliss easing the stress from his voice. He looked quite satisfied. “This is… divine.”
Licking his lips, his dark eyes fell down to you. As his lips parted, you saw them. Long canines, not unlike a wolf’s, but perhaps more pointed.
Unnatural.
He tongued at one of them and a deep-seated hunger filled his eyes. “I need more, mea lux,” he spoke, lowering himself until his nose pressed against your soft belly again.
The fabric of the thin slip was pulled taut, up off your abdomen. He bit through the linen, the sharp canines making easy work of it. A loud ripping sound filled the room and cool air washed over you, now laid bare for him.
“Geta,” you flushed, nerves worming into your gut. “This is–”
“Please, mea lux, I am still so hungry…” he whined, lips brushing low, his tongue leaving behind a wet line. “You would not deny me this, would you?”
His voice was all sweetness, but edged with mania.
“I have not bathed–”
“Good,” he growled, hands firmly pushing your thighs apart.
He heard the transition, the moment when fear left you and your heartbeat settled into a more familiar rhythm. It made him salivate, his breathing matching yours, his desire growing for more than just your blood.
Your embarrassment only lasted until his tongue met the skin of your inner thigh.
Soft, satisfied sounds rumbled from his throat with each stripe of skin he cleaned. He was immersed in it, each little taste making him stray further and further from himself.
Your hand gripped his shoulder.
Slow. Or you will frighten her, he told himself, his desperation only barely restrained. There was something about you that always made it easier.
The blood alone was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, but mixed with your own desire for him? Truly a gift from the gods. He would not let a bit of it go to waste.
Dark eyes met yours.
“Do you have any idea how delicious you are?”
“Me?”
He made a sound of assent before pushing his face into your warm, wet center, eyes shut in relief.
Eyes rolled back. Sighs full of relief from both of you.
Geta wondered if this was what his victims felt, what kept them coming back for more. If it was anything close, he could understand. He could live here.
There was no room for cleanliness or concern for anything other than the taste on his tongue. The sounds ripped from his throat were obscene, the sounds he was making, even more so.
Wet smacking, deep grunts, the slick pop of flesh leaving his suction.
His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.
It didn’t matter. You were seeing the stars. It was almost too much, the way it felt. So wonderful, in fact, that you couldn’t even begin to spare a thought for how loud you were. It was everything you’ve ever needed.
Tremors in your muscles, all down your legs. That was all the warning you were able to give before your body seized, your thighs attempting to clamp shut around his head.
Wave after wave pushing out low moans until they finally stopped.
“Geta.”
You pushed at his shoulder. The sensations were too much to bear.
“A moment longer,” he mumbled, lapping up anything else he could.
When there was nothing left, he resurfaced. It should have been horrifying. Streaks of blood spread over the bottom half of his face. His tongue was already swiping at his bottom lip, collecting what was within reach.
But you weren’t scared of him.
“Are you feeling better?” you asked, watching him closely.
His eyes were still dark, but there was some light returning. He wiped at his cheeks, licking away any remnants from his palm.
“Geta?” You moved over to him.
He caught your wrist as you reached for him, his grip tight. “Not… yet.”
You waited, wrist still in his hand, watching him lick his fingers completely clean, his face almost entirely back to its usual state.
“Geta,” you spoke, your voice merely a whisper. “What happened to you?”
“I am the monster you married.” He looked up at you, eyes shining in the warm firelight.
A monster. Surely not. Yet the proof spoke for itself.
“How did this happen?”
He took in a deep breath, let it out. “I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t see how it started. I just… I went to check on Caracalla, and the next moment I was sitting up from the floor, and he was crying over me, his wrist in my mouth. That was a few months ago.”
“And now you…”
“Feed.”
You felt dizzy.
“At first it was awful. You know what my brother is like. Unrestrained in everything, including this new appetite. I was having to pick up after him, to protect him. I think he understands now, the value in keeping his food source alive. At least, I hope he does.”
“So tonight, your meeting…?”
He nodded, pulling your wrist into his lap. “I don’t take pleasure in it. I want you to know that.”
“Is that why when you return, you are…” Heat filled your cheeks.
His full lips curved into a grin. “Yes.”
Relief. Concerns stuffed down deep melted away. He noticed.
“What is it?” Damp fingertips smoothed circles over your wrist, your pulse.
You drew up your knees, holding them close. “I thought maybe I wasn’t enough, or you were still set in your ways…”
He sighed deeply. “Not a chance, mea lux. Do you know why I still married you, knowing what I have become?”
You met his eyes, intensely curious.
“I am selfish. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And so graceful. I resolved to make it work. I have made it work, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” you admitted.
“Tonight was… I was reckless.” His other hand smoothed up your arm, to the crook of your elbow and back, slowly exposing himself to more of you, testing his hunger. “I did not take enough. It was stupid of me, I put you in danger.”
“But I am fine.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you… you’re still…?”
A nod.
His eyes raked up your arm, to your neck, staring hard at the pulse there. He could feel it beneath his thumb, at your wrist, a millisecond delay. If only your heart didn’t beat so nicely. Hard and strong, not a lullaby, far worse, the opposite. A siren call. Normally tuned out, but now…
“Mea lux, I need more.” His grip on your wrist tightened slightly. “Can I have more?”
You would give him anything he wanted. Yes, even that. Your imagination filled in the gaps. You understood what this was. What would happen.
Why did it excite you?
“Yes.”
He moved over lightning fast, immediately nuzzling at your neck. Only seconds passed between giving him permission and his teeth slowly sinking into your skin.
Like he was trying to be careful.
They were sharp, piercing. Forcing a gasp from your lips.
Your hand pushed at his head until a soft, warm wave washed over you. Your fingers tangled in his hair instead as you let out soft, relaxed breaths.
Dreamlike. The lights all had halos, radiant like stars.
A sound you felt, each of his steady gulps, his grip on you tightening.
And then you felt that warmth spread out, your free hand sliding down his clothed back.
A warning growl.
Heat like the sensation of the sun on his skin filled him as the fresh, rich blood poured down his throat. But yours was sweeter, like what he remembered honey tasting like. Even better than that.
He would take his fill, and absolutely not a drop more, he promised himself.
He couldn’t afford to get carried away, or distracted, even as your hand sought his hip. Even as it pulled him in closer, even as he settled between open thighs.
Open, inviting, warm, soft, plush, velvet–
Your gasp woke him from his trance.
He was already buried deep, so lost in you he didn’t even realize.
He moved to lift his head from your neck but your hand pushed him back down, pressing his lips to the wound as your thighs squeezed at his hips, urging him to continue.
The blood smeared over his lips until he opened his mouth, lapping at the trickle. And then his hips began to move.
The Elysian fields. He could see them. The closest he would ever get to them was right here. He never wanted to leave. But he knew he had to.
One final drag of his tongue and he moved to your lips, pressing his mumbled gratitude against your mouth as his hips continued to move.
He tasted of hot metal but you didn’t care. Never before had you felt this good, this free. You already wanted a next time. And there were others that felt this? That got to experience this?
No. Only you.
He lifted his head. Looking down at you, watching you so relaxed, so blissful, coming apart. He felt such relief.
A squeeze at his hips, your thighs tightening. A whispered “more.”
It was all the urging he needed.
He let his hands move to your hips as he sat up, drawing you in along with each thrust. Your legs were unable to hold on, giving up their grip, your hands covering his, back arching.
Your sounds could probably be heard out in the hall, or down in the gardens, not that anyone would be out at this hour.
It didn’t take much more, especially at that pace, that angle–
A great tide.
It was brutal as it crashed over you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to what you could reach of him. Clenching firmly around him.
And he followed you. Collapsing. Gasping. Pushing in even deeper. Cheek smearing blood as he buried his face in your neck. Not to bite.
More than a minute went by.
He finally pressed a gentle kiss to the marks he’d left behind before sitting up, pulling the tunic up and off, revealing the smear at his collar, the rest of his torso.
“We’ve made a mess,” you commented, your eyes following the trail down from his mouth, his chin, his neck, even a little on his chest.
“We have,” he agreed, eyes fixed to your neck, the stain in the fabric beneath you.
“I need to–”
As you moved to sit up, Geta was there, pushing you back down. “Rest, my love. I’ll take care of it. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
A nod.
And so he got to work, cleaning up his mess. A moist cloth wiping you clean, strong arms moving you to the other half of the bed. Smoothing your hair out of your face. Then he cleaned himself. Full, sated, he gave no thought to any lingering traces, the washbasin now reddish-pink.
Geta returned to your side, resting a hand on your cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired,” you confessed, pressing a hand to his, eyelids already only half-open. The blood loss didn’t help things.
“Sleep, mea lux. I will look after you.” He meant it.
A soft smile. “Thank you, my love.”
It didn’t take long after that for you to slip into a steady slumber.
Geta allowed himself a moment to study you, to admire you, before he was up, walking over to the door.
He shrugged on a robe and held it shut before opening the door, eyes falling to a young servant who immediately turned bright red.
“Please, bring breakfast, fruit, whatever is ready.”
The servant nodded, walking quickly down the long hallway.
Geta slid the door shut quietly, looking to where you slept. You looked so relaxed. You were a vision, the only thing marring it being the wound at your neck.
Guilt crept up on him until he could hardly breathe. The one thing he told himself he’d never do, and he caved as soon as it was offered to him. He should have put up more of a fight. He should have left the room the moment he realized.
But he didn’t. And he had unburdened himself of a big secret. It did feel better not having to hide it from you, but there were other things that now needed discussing.
A gentle knock.
Geta took the tray and shut the door up tight. He set it down on a small table at your bedside and got to work straightening the thick woven tapestries now used to cover the archways that led out onto the terrace. Once he was satisfied that no sun would be breaking through as he slept, he climbed into bed, pulling you in against his chest.
He listened to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.
'Mea lux' translates to 'my light.' Get it?
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