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wildestrangerDon't know what came over me. But come on, wouldn't it be great to see Marc Anthony and Brutus get it on? The fittest blokes in the series...
In the Tent
"Caesar would like us to get along."
Marc Anthony's voice is mocking. He plays the drunken, careless bastard well, but Brutus has learned to listen to the contemptuos undercurrent, the casual change of tone that pulls the ground from under his feet and leaves him mute and humiliated. Marc Anthony is good at that.
"I doubt Caesar cares. As long as we don't kill each other. There's no need to be friendly."
There's a sudden move of hands and legs and Brutus ends up bending over the table in Caesar's tent, his wrists held tight in Marc Anthony's hand and a broad chest against his back. A muscled leg sliding insinuatingly between his thighs.
"Ah, but there's every need, Brutus. You fought a battle and lost. You betrayed Caesar, and Rome. You come here begging for mercy, begging to be spared after you've been defeated."
A slow mouth moves along Brutus' spine, and he shivers.
"I don't intend to spare you."
Marc Anthony's thumb is stroking Brutus' wrist, controlling his struggle with insulting ease. Another hand slides up his thigh, moves under his tunich.
"I could scream."
The hand stops.
""You could scream. Here in Caesar's tent, with a thousand men standing guard outside and your friend Cicero trying to settle peace with Caesar as we speak. What would they think if they saw you like this? Could you hold your head up as a Roman after you've been Marc Anthony's toy? You are no longer a boy, Brutus."
But then the hand slips away with one last teasing stroke. The other man moves back, leaving Brutus by the table, still leaning over as in pain and breathing hard.
"And I will make you scream, Brutus. But it won't be out of pain."
The tent's door opens and closes with a flap, and a roar greets their general. Brutus stays in the tent, and considers. And plans.
In the Tent
"Caesar would like us to get along."
Marc Anthony's voice is mocking. He plays the drunken, careless bastard well, but Brutus has learned to listen to the contemptuos undercurrent, the casual change of tone that pulls the ground from under his feet and leaves him mute and humiliated. Marc Anthony is good at that.
"I doubt Caesar cares. As long as we don't kill each other. There's no need to be friendly."
There's a sudden move of hands and legs and Brutus ends up bending over the table in Caesar's tent, his wrists held tight in Marc Anthony's hand and a broad chest against his back. A muscled leg sliding insinuatingly between his thighs.
"Ah, but there's every need, Brutus. You fought a battle and lost. You betrayed Caesar, and Rome. You come here begging for mercy, begging to be spared after you've been defeated."
A slow mouth moves along Brutus' spine, and he shivers.
"I don't intend to spare you."
Marc Anthony's thumb is stroking Brutus' wrist, controlling his struggle with insulting ease. Another hand slides up his thigh, moves under his tunich.
"I could scream."
The hand stops.
""You could scream. Here in Caesar's tent, with a thousand men standing guard outside and your friend Cicero trying to settle peace with Caesar as we speak. What would they think if they saw you like this? Could you hold your head up as a Roman after you've been Marc Anthony's toy? You are no longer a boy, Brutus."
But then the hand slips away with one last teasing stroke. The other man moves back, leaving Brutus by the table, still leaning over as in pain and breathing hard.
"And I will make you scream, Brutus. But it won't be out of pain."
The tent's door opens and closes with a flap, and a roar greets their general. Brutus stays in the tent, and considers. And plans.
