Disclaimer: Rome and all related media © HBO
A/N: Experimented with a more classic ff writing style, especially when it comes to erotica. Wasn't my thing. Still, some of you might enjoy it.
PS: I'm not interested in constructive criticism for this fic.
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Silk
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Octavian has dropped the poetry, philosophy and social awkwardness to become an emperor. Some say he lacks apathy—calls him ferocious, even—which makes the darkness he harboured in boyhood is scratch the insides of his heart. No matter. He's climbing the ranks, gaining victory after victory.
And now he's won.
("You defeated me?")
Everyone agrees on it, from gossiping servants to fat nobles offering gifts and congratulations. This gives him no satisfaction, nor does the party they've thrown. The sound of the harp does nothing to sooth Octavian's mind. In his youth, his collection of Greek scrolls did. Now, most things rarely keep boredom in check. There is something missing. He doesn't know what.
("You cowardly little shit.)
The air is heavy with Egyptian incense. Up above them there are scarlet garments; theatrics from the same land. It's a Roman party swarming with pretty whores, tables full of good drink and food. Octavian sits in the middle of it all.
("He never even left his tent!")
The red in his surroundings turns fuzzier as if a great veil blurs it, triggered by tire and alcohol. The men get drunker, sloppier and louder with their words, as do the musicians and the music.
("You have never defeated me in anything!" )
In the midst of his memory someone grabs his wrist. He twitches awake like a deer. The voice—the thundering, hateful voice—was only in his imagination, in his memory. Octavian turns, slowly, mouth locked an unreadable half smile. "Livia," he says, gently removing her hand, ignoring how her nails scrape him.
"Do not fall asleep, dear husband," she tells him in their place among golden pillows and Egyptian silk. "We can't have that. This is your party. At least pretend to be content."
"Livia," he tries again, his tongue feeling too fussy in his mouth. Out of a sudden, he isn't quite as confident as the façade suggests. "I wonder... In all these years, what is my biggest accomplishment?"
She throws her head back, laughing, "Does wine make you insecure, husband? We're celebrating the death of the wretched villain Mark Antony." His name on her tongue is as poisonous as Cleopatra's snakes. For Octavian, it stings. Yet his smile widens. Livia leans closer, "...I heard your mother's acts during the display of his body this morning. She did cling to him for many, many years... Even after death." Innocently, she sips from a goblet, but with a mischievous glint in her pretty eyes.
Livia talks more than she thinks.
(Like Octavian, Atia is of the Julii, the same blood as Caesar's in her veins. His mother is many things. Weak is not one of them. Octavian takes one look at the person he calls mother and sees a warrior woman—her victories in another battlefield than him—picking up blackmail information from loudmouthed servants. Octavian smirks and notes to fire them later. If Livia wishes to ruin his mother, well... Many have tried, and died.)
"I only need some air." It isn't air he needs. He needs a distraction, something to soothe the doubt gnawing in his bones. Octavian excuses himself with, kissing Livia's hand before parting. He isn't even a meter away and already she's flirting with everything with two legs and a cock.
The party getting crazier and crazier for each hour, Octavian slips unnoticed from the crowd when a drunken fight is getting out of control. As soon as he's alone, he slumps against the wall, breathing out the rich stink of decadence.
Then, he wanders the gigantic mansion until he reaches the cellar door.
Octavian lights a torch.
He's not sober. Not drunk either. He's not quite certain what he's doing down there, but certain enough not to fall down the stone stairs. The smell of festivities is replaced by the smell of earth. The floorboards under him creak.
Footsteps echo through the underground dungeon. Not even Livia knows this place exists, and if she did, she wouldn't set a foot here. A white rat crawls into a hole in the wall as Octavian enters the hallway, easily manoeuvring through the labyrinth of stone until he reaches a certain cell.
The bearded torturer swings his sword at him. "Who's there?"
"Leave us." The torch lights up Octavian's face in a deeply unsettling way. He looks like a madman. The torturer shifts. He has met many great men—interrogated many great men, broken many great men—and recognises one that's about to fall. If it's the wine on Octavian's tongue or something else is uncertain.
"Did you not hear me, you pig? I demand that you remove yourself."
Unwillingly, the man vanishes into the hallway. Octavian's chest rises and falls, expression less even when angry.
A dry, throaty laugh comes from the corner.
Octavian steps towards the sound. The torch in his hand doesn't help the coolness that washes over him like a winter breeze—the same coolness he felt when playing war, manipulating the chess pieces that was real soldiers' lives. It's lovely.
"Antony," Octavian says softly, hanging the torch on the wall.
The walls gain a reddish glimmer like blood has been sprayed over them, and so the skin of his fallen archenemy. Chained to the wall, Mark Antony is a shadow of his former self. Not yet has starvation eaten his muscles completely, but he's thinner than before, flesh hanging loosely. He locks gazes with Octavian and laughs.
The man cares little for honour.
"Well look at that. The great Caesar junior visits little old me...? What do I owe the pleasure?" He mockingly bows as far as the chains allow him to. After a while, his smile drops. "Answer me, you shit."
Octavian tilts his head to the side, wondering. "From any other man I'd expected gratefulness for saving his life."
Antony sneers, pulling against the shackles. He looks weak—well, as weak as Mark Antony can look, because he still looks as if he would take Octavian's head off if he got his hands on something sharp and pointy.
This makes Octavian's lips curl into a horrible, delighted smile. He searches in his pockets and holds up a red apple—like in that Jewish myth of mankind's first sin; thirst for knowledge—and cuts it in small boats. "Are you not going to ask why I left you alive?"
"By Juno's cunt, it's not that hard. You wanted a trophy; a trophy to occasionally starve and take your frustration out on." Antony studies him for a short moment. "Or perhaps you're just sick in the head."
"Perhaps. You hungry?" The red apple crunches between Octavian's teeth. Antony stomach twists—all he'd gotten since his return from Egypt was gravel. Octavian continues to eat until he's right in front of Antony, bending down to his level. He gets a sneer in return.
Octavian's face is so close... Too close. Although it is distant, Antony can see some of Atia there, and it makes his heart clench painfully. Had she cried for him, when they paraded the fake body through Rome? 'Of course she didn't,' he thinks, bittersweet.
To Octavian he only mouths vulgarities even when he feeds him some apple boats.
It's all about power, really.
Octavian presses his lips to Antony's so hard it hurts. Antony responds with the same amount of force, like he's trying to yank Octavian's head clean off. It isn't quite a kiss, especially not one shared between lovers. Even as tongues and teeth become involved, they are nothing but enemies. Inside, Octavian laughs and laughs and laughs because finally, finally he is living—
and then Antony has Octavian's bottom lip between his teeth and bites.
Octavian recoils, blinking. "You bit me." Blood drips from his punctured lip. He touches it, smearing scarlet all over his mouth. "You bit me." Anger swallows the shock whole, Octavian's heart rate speeding up.
"And you get off on it, don't you? You sick fuck."
Octavian gets the burning rod. He still doesn't fill out his armour as well as well as he'd liked, but his fingers tangle in Antony's hair and he pulls. "Shall I decorate the face of yours, the one that women loved?" A mark in his face would be nice—but it could make him unrecognisable. His body is already full of it, the torturer taking quite the pleasure torturing a man who's supposed to be dead. The rod goes lower. "Or shall I fry your cock off?"
Antony freezes. One wrong move now and no woman on earth will look his way again. "...I didn't only drink and shag in Egypt, believe it or not. Cleopatra was quite insistent I learned about the country's culture—and let me tell you, those fucking torture methods there would make you wet your pants, boy."
"Like what?"
Immediately, the burning rod is so near his face that if he stuck his tongue out, he'd reach it. Antony has to swallow the panic to talk clearly. "Have you seen delicate carvings done on exposed bone? Or locked a man's chest in a glass case and seen rats claw out his insides? ...I didn't forget any of those, at least. She'd be proud."
"But she's dead. I paraded her rotting corpse through the city this morning. The people, frankly, went wild like animals."
"Shut up." He's slipping now, allowing tire to come into his voice—anything to make his body focus on calming his fanatic heart. By this rate, he'll die by fucking age.
"Why?"
"...Bad luck to speak of the dead."
Octavian chuckles icily, laugh somehow lowering the temperature in the entire cell. "And when did you care about luck? Is it because you didn't go the same path as her? Because you survived, and no one but me knows I didn't kill you?" He leant even closer. The rod is back in his hand, end still glowing red. "I could do it right now. Slit your throat. Burn your heart out. Choke you to death."
"But you won't, will you? Kill me, I mean."
"How do you know that?"
"If you'd wanted to you'd done it in the moment you'd laid eyes on me. Instead you brought me to your personal dungeon. They say that with the involvement of alcohol, man finally indulges his most secret desires." If so his time in Egypt meant he was a bloody miserable man. "You don't want me dead; you want me to put up another family member of the Julii on my I-have-fucked list."
"You're disgusting."
The rod hits the floor, creating angry black marks in the stone. It makes them both freeze until it sinks in and both throws themselves after the weapon.
In the haze, Octavian miscalculates the length of Antony's chains and crawls over him. Antony's legs are free. Like a trap, he closes them around the smaller body. From the back of Octavian's throat comes a shocked noise, until Antony uses his head—literally—and smashes it against Octavian's. While he's out, Antony grabs after the rod and holds it near the Emperor of Rome's baby blue eyes.
Both of them are short on their breaths this time. Octavian's lip is bleeding again.
"I should destroy you," Antony gasps out, voice hard, eyes harder. One move and Octavian ends up blind.
But Octavian manages to grin with glee because his own fear is so lovingly thrilling. He chokes out a barely audible "Do it".
Does the little shit know that when Antony looks at him, he sees things that remind him of Atia? Or...
Antony's looks down. "Getting off on this too, aren't you?" Octavian doesn't answer, only breathes with his mouth open. In it, Antony wants to put either the glowing hot rod or his dick. "Loosen these chains, boy," the former Roman general commands darkly.
To his surprise, Octavian does use a key to unlock the chains forcing Antony's hand to be near the wall. But just as he tastes freedom, Octavian has sent the key flying and locked a shackle around Antony's foot. "Do you believe I would fall for that, Antony?"
"Sons of Jupiter, you passed stupid when you came close enough for me to gauge your fucking eyes out."
An uncomfortable silence passes between the two. Octavian's still hard. Antony slowly reaches for him, not surprised to see Octavian grab his hand on reflex.
"Know if you do anything I do not like, I will not hesitate to pay you back with ten times the pain and humiliation. Are we clear?" There is something raw in Octavian's tone that made Antony nod once. "Good."
Instead their mouths crash together in another hard not-kiss, even rougher than last time. Blood mixes in. It satisfies a deeply animalistic part of Antony. It'll leave bruises.
There are no whispers of love or persuasion involved; they both want this, consequences to be damned.
Antony doesn't lose himself completely. His true intentions are in the back of his head. He must get out. But the party's still up above them. Antony wouldn't get far in Rome without being stabbed in the back. Still... He'll cut Octavian's throat sometime... But his priorities right now is to fuck him senseless.
Alarming, how easily Octavian's armour slips off. His blade—more for show than anything else—hits the ground, but Antony pays Octavian's belt more attention. Octavian isn't quite sure where to put his hands at the moment, so he stills, allowing the older man to work. He isn't sure on his feeling considering the other man insistency to still wear those slave rags.
"This would be easier if I wasn't chained up," Antony breathes hotly, pulling at the shackles to prove his point.
"Not going to happen."
They're kissing again, Antony nearly crushing his jaw. He presser the body against the stone wall, its chill clashing with Octavian's own heat. "What would your wife say if she saw you like this, uh?" Rough fingers wrap around his cock, slick with sweat and precome, sending shivers down his spine. "Or how about your sister? You little monster." If Livia is good concerning his fetishes, this man is an undisputed godl, mixing pleasure and pain just right, even if his words sting like salt.
'We are both monsters.'
Their sex is a battle.
Octavian hungrily plants a trail of kisses down to Antony's collarbone, not at all shocked when he's twisted around. "Against the wall. Spread them wide. This is going to hurt."
...It does hurt. If they'll do this again, Octavia promises himself to bring oil, just when he realizes he's thinking about the next time. The burning pain along with the realization in his ass pushes an "Nghh!" out his throat before he turns silent again.
He can feel Antony's lips stretch wide against his shoulder. The older man needs a moment to collect himself—here he is, fucking a Roman emperor he'd sworn to kill more than once. All in due time, though. Octavian isn't going anywhere, not with Antony planted deep inside him.
The hand on Octavian's chin is the quiet question of whether he's ready or not. Octavian adjusts a little bit before nodding. It's a clear signal. Antony pulls out, thrusting himself into the body again, searching for the spot that'll make Octavian shut up.
Antony idly discovers Octavian doesn't sigh like his sister, moan like his mother or mewl like Cleopatra, but prefers silence to any noise. This is a challenge. Antony slams himself into the smaller body, rewarded with a groan. "B—Bastard!" It's been long since he fucked somebody this roughly. Another hard thrust and Octavian melts into him. Antony smirks against the juncture between Octavian's neck and shoulder. He can't brand his name in with the rod—the warmth has gone out or he'd debated doing it—so he settles on allowing his teeth to sink into the skin there. There are other ways to mark a man.
Words are useless after that point.
A heat builds in Octavian's lower stomach. First he calls some god's name but two of Antony's fingers are in his mouth, digging into his cheek. "Call out to me. To me!" He sees a thousand sparkling diamonds, blending him with brilliant bright white. The sensation burns through his body. Melted iron.
He clenches beautifully around Antony and sends him over the edge in the process. He isn't quite sure what name he says.
After a small moment of collecting himself, Antony pulls out. "Shit," he curses. "Fuck."
Octavian stumbles away from him. Antony is too exhausted to stop him.
"You'll come back," Antony shouts after him. "You know you will."
Octavian limps up the stairs, only to be hindered by a shadow.
"I saw," the shadow says, stepping forth and revealing itself as a male slave. "I'll tell, if you don't—"
Useless demands.
Octavian raises an eyebrow, and understands.
Brutality—that was the thing that was missing from his life.
He cuts off the slave's tongue. Blood splatter across the stone. Oh well, it could be a warning to those who wanted to come down here. His tongue is smaller in Octavian's hand than it seemed like in the slave's mouth, and it sticks to the wall when he throws it away.
Inside the mouth, a bloody stump probes back and forth.
"For the sake of your children, don't you dare die," he says. "I have no desire hiring yet another. And do clean yourself up." Octavian kicks the man when he doesn't move quickly enough, having no apathy for a mere slave.
The slave manages to crawl to the top of the stone staircase and into the hall, bloodied face scaring a nearby girl servant. Octavian gives her a predator smile, pointing at the man. "To set an example," he says smoothly and walks to the party again.
Unsurprisingly, his mother is the only one sober enough to note his return, but wine has dimmed her senses—she doesn't note the red on his unruly rags, nor the love bites on his neck. They nod to each other, Octavian standing right beside her and watching the dead drunk swine fall one by one.
"Jocasta and Posca got into a fight, it was quite the scandal." An attempt at small talk, but it isn't quite as natural as before—it's the way her eyes keep on flickering to his. "Too bad you missed it."
He tilts his head to the side. How would she react if he told her he'd just fucked her former lover, a traitor to Rome? Are women of the Julii as strong as he thinks? But he's had his little war downstairs in a damp cellar—for now, he desires peace.
"Yes," Octavian says, smile like glass. "Yes, too bad."
The next night, Livia returns to an empty bed.