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The triumph ends at the temple. Sacrifices must be made to Jupiter on Capitoline hill. Acacius has brought spoils of war and prisoners, chained Numidians, throats soon cut to the blazing sun, dark blood spilling onto marble until flies feast on it.
Acacius ascends the rose-petalled steps to the temple as the masses cheer his name, drums resounding, songs of his soldiers closing the parade. What in his youth would have swelled his heart with joy, rings cold to him now.
The emperors await.
They receive him in the shade of the temple, senators and guards ushered to the side to make room for the returning general.
He greets his caesars, and they crown him. The golden laurel weighs heavy on his brow, but the black eyes of emperor Geta are heavier. His twin, Caracalla, glares openly, battening himself on Acacius as he always does when they summon him to place a new cruelty upon him. And they do. Geta nears and cuts at Acacius’ neck with a sword, just enough to slice the skin, making him feel the sting of the blade.
They ask for Persia. India. Their bloodlust knows no bounds, their eyes are full of it.
Acacius has been leading their wars that, even when victorious, are only vanity—the ever widening borders of the imperium force Rome to fight her former neighbours’ disputes, leeching the Roman populus of blood. How many more of his soldiers does he have to feed into the maws of Geta’s and Caracalla’s reign? Countless men broken against foreign shores, falling far from their homeland to add territory-names to the emperors’ papyrus scrolls and wax tablets. But they have learned under their father’s hand. What else did Severus do but boast of his conquests while spending vast sums best kept for grain and welfare? Violent sons of a violent father.
They circle him now, gleaming in their golden armour, both shorter than him, slighter, the smaller one half-woman in his finery and the plumpness of his flesh.
“Since your wife spurns us,” Caracalla says, eyes intent on the blood trickling down Acacius’ neck, “You must join us at the palace.”
“Caesar, I humbly ask—”
“He is right,” Geta cuts in. His large dark eyes fix Acacius again. A shiver runs down his back.
“Games will be held. But such a day must be celebrated properly, or the gods will rescind their favour.”
Geta holds up his right hand. Caracalla giggles next to him. Acacius takes the hand and kisses the soft skin. Geta’s eyes never leave him.
Acacius swallows. He turns and kisses Caracalla’s hand too.
The sacrifices must be offered. The gods drink heavily from the cup of enemy blood.
Acacius watches the caesars watch it. They are wide-eyed both, a laugh arises between them, from which he cannot say, it crests in jubilation and merges with the gurgling of open throats.
“It’s over so quickly,” Caracalla says.
“The games will last.” Geta hands his brother a cup of wine.
“Yes.” Caracalla smiles. “They will last for days.”
Acacius veers his gaze to the sky. Not a cloud in the endless burning blue.
They travel separately to the palace.
The crowd gathers along the roads and Acacius slows his chariot, waving to them, not for victory but for the lives of their sons who he has left unburied in the Numidian waters.
Guards lead him into the palace, caesars since Augustus have added to its houses, labyrinthine by design to stall assassins—with little success. A grim smile forms on Acacius’ lips. The soles of his sandals echo on the polished marble floors up to the high decorated ceilings. The evening sun reddens the momentous columns lining the way around an artificial spring. Bird song. Babble of water. The fires of day finally give way to balmy warmth.
Guards direct him inside.
Statues and busts gleam alongside the walls vibrant with frescos of heroes and gods. Hero-glory is a myth. Acacius has not seen glory in a long time.
Not since Maximus.
A sudden ache breaks in his breast. If only he might return to Lucilla instead of having to spend the evening with these beasts. A year of reign has been enough to drain the coffers of Rome, spent on war that yields little, on feasts and imported luxuries that turn Acacius’ stomach, jewels with which the twins adorn themselves like barbaric Eastern kings, delicacies from the far reaches of the empire, strange creatures for Caracalla, many of which die on Roman soil and have to be replaced—
“This way.”
One of the guards escorts him into a lavish triclinium and closes the heavy doors behind Acacius. The Roman elite gathers on lecti arranged in a scattering of U-shapes throughout the room. An evening breeze flutters through delicate curtains and shifts rose petals that strew about the marble floor. Older, faded frescos of Bacchus and Venus ornament the walls. Fruit and flowers amass on tables, from which the guests pick their pleasures, chatting and feasting, senators, patricians, generals. Slaves attend them with food and wine and flesh. A cheer goes through the room upon Acacius’s entrance and he waves at the guests briefly. Already weariness weighs down his limbs, he has no taste to entertain these vipers.
For a moment Acacius closes his eyes, inhaling a deep breath.
“You took your time, general,” comes the basaltine voice of Caracalla.
Pulse quickens in Acacius’ chest.
“My apologies,” he says and opens his eyes.
Caracalla has changed his armour for red robes, richly gilded, and heavy golden necklaces, earrings, a ring of gemstone on every finger. The jewels and gold clang softly like on a woman, but the boy stares at him with a brazenness no lady would ever entertain. His golden tooth catches the light when he grins. White powder on his face covers scars of an adolescence he has not yet outgrown, and he has rouged his cheeks and lips again, all standing in stark contrast to his gingerish hair.
Repulsion shudders through Acacius. That the caesar would clad himself in such obscene eastern garb…so openly spurn what a Roman man ought to be. In front of everyone.
“You have not wiped the blood,” Caracalla says as he advances.
Acacius stands still, forces his hand into a fist by his side as caesar looks him up and down before he traces a finger over his breastplate to his neck. To the cut. Caracalla rubs over the cruor, then stares at his fingers as though lost in a dream.
“How much blood on the field?” Caracalla asks, “How much in the sea? When you fought our war.” Caracalla looks up at him with child-like wonder. And the lust of a beast.
“Streams of it,” Acacius says quietly.
“Splendid!” Caracalla claps and lets himself fall onto one of the lecti, waving to a servant. At once, more servants flit to the table, pouring wine.
“Come,” Caracalla says, raising a cup and gesturing for Acacius to take the lectus next to him. No sight of the imperial concubines, no actors or sycophants approach, and that too feels dangerous. As though his legs were weighted with lead, Acacius obeys, as he must obey all the emperors ask of him. Gritting his teeth, he thinks of Lucilla’s gentle touch, the comfort of her laugh and every look. But it gladdens him that at least she must not endure the twins, as they have grown rather fond of her in ways that pinch fear into Acacius’ heart. To walk unnoticed is safer. To be seen…
Caracalla dips a fig in honey and bites it while he looks at Acacius. The sticky liquid smears on his lips, and he licks at it eagerly.
Acacius turns his head. Perhaps he should abstain from drink, but to endure a minute more with clear spirit is impossible. He takes the cup. He drinks.
A giggle resounds next to him. He does not look.
Where is Geta? Has he at last had his fill of feasting? Surely it would be a mistake to believe himself safe from him. The older brother keeps his distance at times but is no less fatal for it. Often has Acacius seen Geta sit in some shadowed corner at a banquet, only for Geta to give orders upon which slaves were brought to fight, to kill each other for some startling spectacle, while his brother squealed his joy unbridled and caught Geta’s gaze, to grin at one another, and soon be seated close again.
It cools Acacius’ veins. He takes another long gulp and swallows, feeling Caracalla’s eyes on him.
“Come now,” Caracalla says impatiently, “tell me of the war. Amaze me.”
To make his soldiers’ deaths into entertainment for this parasite— If only he could drag him to the battlefield and thrust him to the frontline, see how he fares there, bludgeoned in a moment, bloodied, dead.
Slowly he speaks, without embellishment, of the siege. The cries din in his ears and he sees the waters red again, all familiar in waking and nightmare. Memory is a heavy god that demands his due.
From the moving curtains a figure loosens into the throng. Golden robes glimmer like a flame as Geta stalks closer, lips pale and pressed in concentration, gaze flicking to his brother and holding it, holding it. A strange feeling snares Acacius and halts him in his speaking.
Caracalla seems not to notice.
Geta walks behind their lectus, and Caracalla reaches out for Geta, fingers shivering over his brother’s arm before Geta sinks onto the lectus next to Acacius. They bracket him in. Their twin-star gaze licks over Acacius like fire.
“Drink,” Geta commands, dark eyes too dark to look into, an abyss from which Acacius might never climb back up into the light.
He drinks. And plenty.
The evening deepens. The slaves kindle oil lamps and shadows flicker over the guests, their laughter and chatter merging until no face is a face, and no voice a voice and there is only the fruit-sweetness of wine that blears Acacius’ gaze. When he looks at the emperors it seems they are one and the same, unnatural in their shared title, mirroring each other without realising. And yet, Geta is still like some creature lying in wait while Caracalla fiddles and moves, the hem of his robes riding up his milky thighs. So wide and soft. Acacius catches Geta following his look at his brother’s exposed skin and quickly veers his attention back to his cup.
He does not notice when the guests start leaving. Nor when he is suddenly, and entirely, alone with the emperors.
The world sways. Geta’s hand at his elbow steadies him as he stands.
“Come, general,” Geta’s voice slithers into his ear, too sharp not to cut.
Wine dulls the flare of danger in his chest. The hallways and courtyards blend together, he does not remember the way out.
Chambers open before them. Oil lamps glimmer at the walls, few enough for twilight. Caracalla runs in first, half-stumbling, landing on a bed, giggling, splaying out like a child in the sand.
“Where are we?” Acacius asks.
Caracalla laughs again.
“He does not understand,” Caracalla fleers, sits up and slowly walks over to Acacius.
Geta sinks onto a chair, leaning back.
“He is a little dense.”
Acacius looks around. What they are implying—
Incredulously he stares at Caracalla who comes closer and closer until Caracalla’s small plump hands fall onto Acacius’ chest. Breath catches in his throat. Caracalla pushes him a step back, playful, and again, rougher until Acacius’ back hits the wall.
“Look how handsome,” Caracalla says to his brother but keeps his eyes on Acacius.
Sweat beads at Acacius’ temple.
It is clear enough, but he cannot believe it. This is too steep a price even for an emperor. He is still a general, not a slave in their gardens.
“You cannot—”
“I can,” Caracalla says and smiles wide, gold tooth glinting. This close Acacius can clearly discern the marred skin on his cheeks. What is he to do? Break free, storm from these quarters and incur their wrath? His legions are too far away to act. Can he really risk Lucilla’s life whom they would reach for first? He grits his teeth. Surely they mean not to go too far— He’s only ever seen Geta with his concubines, girls all, and Caracalla with his womanish boys, lean and perfumed and painted as much as Geta’s courtesans.
Caracalla’s hands feel at his arms and at his throat again, he is so close that Acacius can smell the wine on his breath and the sweetness of him, lavender like Acacius used to rub between his hands as a child, roses too, and something smokier around it like sacrifice, and Caracalla must stand on his toes because his face is before Acacius’ face and his arms swan around him and his mouth presses to Acacius’ mouth.
For a moment, all else fades before him.
Is this one of the elm tree’s false dreams, plucked from beneath one of its ancient leaves where the tree stands at the gates of Tartarus? Are monsters ahead? Indeed. A laugh breaks from Acacius and the boy slides his tongue into his mouth. Acacius turns his head.
“Halt,” he says.
“No.” Caracalla gropes between Acacius’ thighs. He finds his way under the pteruges and cloth easily. The hand is sure as it grips his half-hard cock. All inside Acacius clamours to throw the caesar off, he could do it without effort and break his bones and unmake him for this shame—
He thinks of Lucilla. Of his plan. He must not risk it.
Caracalla’s lips drag over the cut on Acacius’ neck. Slow and intent the boy opens his mouth and licks. A biting sting. With practised motion Caracalla’s hand starts stroking Acacius but it is dry and rough and Acacius cannot but grunt helplessly.
“He is hard already,” Caracalla says against the skin of Acacius’ neck, wet with his spit.
“How hard?”
“Very,” Caracalla purrs half in awe, half jeer, or perhaps joy. It is all the same with this beast. A shiver runs down Acacius’ neck from where Caracalla’s licked him. Where Geta cut.
How long since he laid with Lucilla? War is a lonely venture, he had little want for relief and when he did it was by his own hand. This is the first time in months that another touches him. His body betrays him. Hot self-reproach stings him from inside, but his hips buck forward. He bites his cheek until he tastes the iron tang of blood and grabs Caracalla’s wrist so hard the bones grind. A wince escapes the emperor, but he does not retreat, instead shoves himself against Acacius and strokes him faster. Acacius still clasps the wrist but does not stop Caracalla.
“Do you take slaves on your campaign? Rape captives?” Caracalla whispers hotly by his ear.
“No,” Acacius grits.
Caracalla laughs.
“He jests,” he says and turns to look at his brother.
Geta sits unmoved, hand deceptively loose on the wooden armrest.
“I think him sincere.”
A long look spans between the brothers before Caracalla turns back to Acacius.
“Truly?” Caracalla whispers.
Acacius gives no reply. He closes his eyes. Cloth shuffles. Caracalla’s warmth shifts, the wine in his blood sways the world, but he opens his eyes and glimpses Geta who stares at him, Geta’s lips parting as his gaze sinks—
Lower.
Caracalla’s knees hit the floor.
Blood thunders through Acacius’ veins so loud he hears nothing else.
Pale wide eyes look up at Acacius. Caracalla’s hand still grabs Acacius’ cock, fingers reaching around its girth but just so. Caracalla opens his mouth.
“Caesar—”
Without breaking their gazes, Caracalla licks over Acacius’ length, base to tip before he wraps his lips around him. The hot wet mouth encircles Acacius and he grabs the boy’s hair without wanting to. A low moan vibrates from Caracalla’s throat. The feeling around his cock is so good he bucks his hips forward into his willing mouth. Is he really debasing himself like that? Servicing him like a whore? Where has Caracalla learned such a thing? If his father could see him now— Teeth graze his cock for a moment, painful, intoxicating.
“Take him deeper,” comes Geta’s quiet command.
Caracalla gags on his cock but opens his mouth wider, letting Acacius cock slide in until he is fully sheathed inside Caracalla’s throat. He can’t believe it. He’s never felt it. It’s so much. Pleasure sears through him like iron throngs from a forge.
Gods be damned.
He fucks into Caracalla’s mouth and Caracalla chokes and coughs, but does not stop. Acacius makes a mess of him. Spluttering vulgar sounds echo in the room. The world is a haze of shadow and fire, lamps streaking into tails of light like godsign, and there Geta sits and watches from the dark and his gaze is boundless black. How often have the brothers done this together? Even in the twilight, Acacius can see that Geta is hard beneath his robe. A shiver runs through Acacius under Geta’s gaze and Caracalla’s hot mouth. Small hands grab at his thighs and Caracalla sucks him harder, cheeks hollowing. Like a whore. Moans flee Acacius, his hands tighten in Caracalla’s hair. He wants him. He wants it. Terror sparks in his chest.
“Pull his hair.”
Acacius simply does. A whine chokes from the boy and Caracalla shifts back, eyes glazed, lips fucked red and swollen. The sight is too much. Acacius’ cock has reduced the caesar to a slave.
“Don’t waste a drop,” Geta says.
There is an edge to Geta’s voice that feels like a cold knife-edge along Acacius’ spine. Geta wants his brother to swallow his seed, tells it, commands it— Pleasure tears into Acacius and he cannot resist its violence, it billows over him like a storm and he gives in to it and then he is coming hard.
Caracalla moves back.
Come spurts from Acacius cock half into the caesar’s mouth, but the rest, to his horror lands on his upturned face. Another jolt shoots seed onto his cheekbone, into his hair. Caracalla moans. Shame seizes Acacius as hot as pleasure. He has defiled the vile creature. He’s shamed him.
They will punish him for it.
Slowly Caracalla gets to his feet, eyes intent on Acacius. The boy grinds against him, his cock a hard line at Acacius’ thigh. Small hands grab his own.
“Touch me,” Caracalla whines with a voice roughened by Acacius’ cock. Come still on his face.
The aftershocks of bliss warm Acacius from the inside out, mellow him into touching the seed on Caracalla’s face. Caracalla takes his hand and sucks the come from his fingers so carelessly that Acacius’ cock twitches despite just having spent.
“Touch him,” Geta urges.
Without thought Acacius switches their positions and moves the boy against the wall. Caracalla licks the seed from where he can reach with his tongue, gathers the rest with his fingers and laps it up like a delicacy, like he needs it. What would it be like to go to his knees and debase himself like that? To unman himself by sucking Caracalla’s cock as though he were one of his slaves. Impossible. Acacius leans in and inhales his scent, the sweetness of him, pulls up his robe and reaches between his thighs. A soft moan, almost a whimper falls from Caracalla’s mouth, he bucks into Acacius’ touch greedily, slick with his own want and Acacius lets his hand be used once, twice before he shoves Caracalla back with his free hand, holding him there, and starts stroking him hard and fast, as a man should. The boy gives in easily. Almost beautiful. Acacius hates himself for it.
Wood scrapes on marble, footfall, a hand reaches for the hooks of Acacius’ shoulder plates and undoes them. Geta’s warm breath shivers over Acacius’ neck.
“Keep going.” Geta takes his armour from him, places it carefully somewhere behind them until his hands find Acacius’ bare skin and even his linen shift falls pooling to the floor by his feet. He is naked before his emperors.
“Oh,” Caracalla moans, voice hoarse, hands coming up to grope at Acacius’ chest.
Blood warms Acacius’ face, he does not dare turn to look at Geta whose hand slides from his shoulder to his chest, cupping his breast. Geta squeezes and Acacius exhales shakily. Caracalla’s hand glides over Geta’s on Acacius’ chest. A harsh inhale behind him. What are they doing? Blind with their closeness, Acacius bends to Caracalla’s face, rubs some of the come by his jaw.
“Does it not shame you?”
A strange look rises in Caracalla’s eyes.
“Why should it?” Caracalla pins his nails into Acacius’ upper arm, gropes him like selecting meat on the market.
“You are a man.”
Geta strokes a single finger down his spine.
“He can be your girl.”
Caracalla’s cock twitches in Acacius’ hand.
“Yes,” Caracalla says.
Disbelief freezes Acacius into stillness.
“Would you like to fuck my brother?” Geta asks and his hand grabs Acacius’ buttock.
“What?”
Caracalla thrusts into Acacius’ loosening fingers before he impels forward, pushing Acacius against Geta behind him.
Breath tickles Acacius’ cheek as Geta leans in and snakes an arm around Acacius.
“Would you like to fuck my brother?” Geta repeats by his ear, this time a whisper. The hand on his ass cheek squeezes. Terror seizes Acacius, or perhaps a worse thing—
Geta’s other hand slides down to Acacius’ cock, wrapping around it so firmly that all thought leaves Acacius for a heartbeat.
“Take him like a girl,” Geta murmurs, barely managing to keep his tone low. “Fuck your seed inside his hole like into a cunt.”
Caracalla moans and grinds against Acacius’ front, his cock jutting into the crease of Acacius’ thigh, brushing against where his brother holds Acacius cock. They are both so hot against him, the embroidered cloth of their robes prickling his skin, their breath so near—
“Let go of me—” but instead of tearing himself loose he opens his mouth when Caracalla kisses him again, tongue sliding lewdly into Acacius’ mouth. Geta’s lips graze his ear, his jaw, so close to his brother, Acacius does not know where up and down is, right or left, where one brother ends and the other begins.
He lets himself be moved, they stumble to the bed and the next second they’re on it and Caracalla is atop him, legs caging his hips.
Geta comes up behind his brother, grabbing Caracalla’s robe. Geta tears it down Caracalla’s shoulders, exposing the skin like ruining a virgin. A curse leaves Acacius. He watches with horror as Caracalla leans to his brother. Acacius’ cock twitches. Caracalla’s eyelashes flutter closed and Geta cups his cheek. The dark eyes veer down Caracalla’s face, his lips parting as if to speak an oath. A shuddering exhale leaves Geta and he almost recoils, shifting back on the bed as Caracalla opens his eyes.
“Brother,” Caracalla whines.
“It’s alright,” Geta says softly. It’s so foreign to hear him tender that Acacius cannot but stare. The two seem not to notice, as though in a world only populated by them. A dream he cannot breach.
“You want it?” Geta asks quietly, greedily.
“Yes.”
Caracalla reaches for Geta and briefly Geta clasps his brother’s arm. He nods. Something passes between them and when it’s done, Geta turns to Acacius, face cold once more.
Acacius should not be here. Venom overflows in this room. He wants to return to his home far from this pestilence, but Caracalla rolls his hips where he sits on Acacius’ cock and he gasps, hands flying to clutch Caracalla’s waist. He’s soft there too and squeals like a girl when Acacius digs his fingers in.
From the corner of his eye he sees Geta slide a hand into his robe. It moves beneath, a slow punishing rhythm.
A hot shudder goes through Acacius. He feels the golden belt tight around Caracalla’s waist instead of his hips, it makes him look all the more like a woman, rounding his hips in a way that fills Acacius with disgust and goes straight to his cock. The emperor leans down to him, licking over his mouth.
“Undress me, general.”
Acacius grazes his fingers over Caracalla’s exposed shoulders and upper chest and where Geta tore his robes down and Acacius slowly pulls until the cloth drapes over the belt. Soft skin, dusted with copper hair, Acacius cups Caracalla’s chest like a woman’s and Caracalla slides over his cock in answer. Breath stutters in Acacius’ lungs. He takes the cloth off him like petals, his rings and chains, the bracelets on his wrists and upper arms, his hands big on the slight frame of the caesar. At last he has him naked, bare skin against bare skin and he can smell him all the more, oils and the salt of his body, the sweetness in his sweat. Acacius swallows. He runs a hand over Caracalla’s thigh up to the slight swell of his belly. Geta shudders out a breath. Acacius turns and looks. A chill seizes him at Geta’s plutonic eyes.
Caracalla places his smaller hands on Acacius’.
“He likes it when you touch my belly,” he says and giggles and shoves Acacius’ hand to his cock. It’s slick and spills more when Acacius touches it.
Movement behind them.
Geta retrieves something from a cabinet. A heartbeat later he shoves a vial into Acacius’ free hand.
“Prepare him.”
It’s been years since Acacius has laid with a boy, but he uncorks the vial and warms the oil on his fingers. Caracalla licks his lip, bites it.
“Enough. Do it.”
Acacius slides a hand over Caracalla’s ass, round and full and smooth, finds the cleft of him, rubs there, cannot believe he is to defile his emperor. He pushes a finger inside and Caracalla moans.
“Yes, yes.” Caracalla’s brows crease. “I want—”
“Slow,” Geta says, dangerous.
“I am.” Acacius moves the finger in Caracalla, slickens him up inside. He feels so tight. The thought to take him and stretch his hole, to fuck him who has driven him to war for months—A groan escapes him and he grips Caracalla’s hip with his free hand. Something strange under his palm, raised skin, a scar.
Caracalla winces, twisting out of the touch.
Geta sits up straight and grabs Caracalla’s shoulder, shushing him like a startled child. The gaze between them spans a shared life-time. It is no secret Severus beat his sons as many fathers do, but that scar… And who else could have given it?
“Am I hurting you?” Acacius asks quietly. Shame fills him for this tenderness, but regret does not come.
Caracalla swallows, shakes his head.
“No. Give me another.”
Acacius obeys, carefully slipping in a second finger. Caracalla tenses, exhales, relaxes and moans, loose and lewd and grinds his hips—Acacius feels his own cock jump against where Caracalla’s thigh traps it against his body and he bucks upward, earning him a high-pitched laugh. Caracalla grins down at him before bending low and licking at his neck again, tongue cleaning off the blood, mouthing on the flesh until Acacius has to put a hand in his neck to keep him still.
“You like that, general.” Caracalla’s grin widens before it disappears into a groan when Acacius crooks his fingers inside him.
Beside them, he can hear the movement of Geta’s hand quickening before stopping completely. A shivery breath threads the air.
“It’s enough,” Caracalla moans, “give me your cock.”
He will have him.
Blood shoots into Acacius' face as he watches Caracalla slide off his fingers, pour oil onto his own hands before wrapping one around Acacius’ cock. The slipperiness is delicious. Caracalla looks him in the eyes when he positions himself.
Acacius grits his teeth. His cock drags against the caesar’s hole, slicked and barely open enough. Caracalla’s mouth falls open as he lowers himself onto it, his hole stretching around Acacius in a vice-like grip that drives sweat from his pores. He has not felt something so tight in years, it is so different a sensation than a cunt, and it is the emperor that Acacius is unmanning.
And Caracalla wants it.
Pain scrunches up Caracalla’s face but he does not stop until Acacius is sheathed inside him to the hilt. The boy’s mouth is open, brows creased and he twists his head to the side, throat long and milky white and Acacius thinks he might wrap his hands around it and squeeze and see how caesar likes violence then. He bites the insides of his cheeks, tensing all over to not fuck into the pliant body above him. Gods, he is so soft and hot inside.
He follows Caracalla’s gaze. He’s looking at Geta who stares back, a quiet fury in his features.
“Touch me,” Caracalla grits, hair sticking to his forehead, sweat slipping down the long line of his throat.
Acacius takes the boy’s cock in hand, it is hot and hard and he strokes it until Caracalla moans. The next moment Caracalla’s hands brace on Acacius’ chest, slippery with oil, and the boy lifts himself up, making Acacius almost slip out before slamming down on him so roughly, the world whitens out around Acacius. He grabs the boy’s hips.
Caracalla laughs breathlessly.
“He likes it,” he says, voice low, “he’s so hard inside me.”
“He’s big,” Geta says.
“Yes,” Caracalla rasps and grinds his hips.
“Ride him.”
Caracalla does. He fucks himself on Acacius cock in a greedy rhythm, making both of them moan. Caracalla leans down to Acacius, wrapping his small hands around Acacius’ throat. And squeezes. The rush goes straight to Acacius’ cock with a heat that holds him hostage, not enough airflow, Caracalla’s painted face above him sneers, glee in his eyes.
Acacius cannot bear it.
With a jolt, he throws Caracalla on his back.
The boy yelps, fear twisting his mouth.
Sharp steel pushes against Acacius’ neck.
He freezes.
Geta stares at him wide-eyed, dagger calm in his fist, but his chest heaves in barely contained panic.
Acacius huffs a breath, draws the blade away with two fingers the same way when Geta cut him first. No blood this time. He holds Geta’s gaze as he spreads Caracalla’s thighs, pats his flanks for a moment like he would a horse. Caracalla giggles.
“It’s alright brother,” Caracalla says, fear turned into joviality. He wraps a leg around Acacius' hip.
“Let the general prove his prowess.” It’s half-mock, half-invitation.
Acacius watches as Geta flicks his gaze from him to his brother and back. Geta's breathing evens out. He slips the dagger back into his robes.
“If you hurt him…” Geta whispers, danger clear in his voice.
Acacius fucks into Caracalla’s soft body. Grunts at his tightness while Caracalla throws his head back, pale eyes wide and fixed on his brother.
“Only as much as you want me to, caesar. Or do you want to…”
“Careful.”
Acacius smiles grimly.
“Of course.” This time he looks at Geta when he fucks deep into his brother. It feels good. Gods, he needed this.
Geta’s nostrils flare with his next inhale, but he says nothing, only presses his lip when Caracalla reaches for him and clasps his arm. Finally Geta breaks their eye contact, instead, smooths a hand over Caracalla’s forehead, almost motherly. Revulsion washes over Acacius and he cannot but set a faster rhythm, his cock harder for having witnessed the gesture.
“Kiss me,” Caracalla begs. He’s looking at—
It’s too much. Acacius bends down and kisses Caracalla who swans a thin pale arm around him, opening his mouth eagerly. The next moment, Geta fists a hand into Acacius’ hair and yanks. Pain sparks and Geta’s mouth is on Acacius’, more desperate than Acacius imagined. Another hand in his hair, and another hand creeps up Geta’s robe to his jaw, a whimpered breath between the three of them—and Caracalla pulls his brother down.
Into an open-mouthed kiss.
Tongues slide against each other, spit wet glint.
Acacius drives hard into Caracalla’s willing body, fucks him roughly, making him moan into his brother’s mouth. Caracalla’s hand that tugged Geta down, now slips into Geta’s robes, arm moving until Geta is making harsh little noises against Caracalla’s lips, each more desperate than the last, tongue slipping into Caracalla’s mouth who sucks on it eagerly.
The world is only flesh between them, Caracalla’s slicked hole drawing him in, clenching around him, and hands, whose he can no longer say when he buries his face in Caracalla’s neck and fucks him with abandon, losing himself in the noises they make, in the tight heat and the shame they have stolen from the gods.
Movement, he opens his eyes, Geta shifts away, lips slick and swollen in a way that makes Acacius’ cock prespill in Caracalla. The boy whimpers, eyes glazed, face delirious.
A hand seizes Acacius’ hair again, Geta hisses a curse and with the hurried grace of a hungry predator moves behind them, robe falling from his shoulders, revealing his long, lean-muscled body. Criss-crossing scars wind over his upper arms, and perhaps continue on his back. Whip marks. A father’s hand in this. It distracts Acacius long enough for Geta to force two oiled fingers inside Acacius. He gasps at the intrusion and from the sizzle of unexpected pleasure. He’s never been touched this way. It stings, but his body is loose from the indulgence of Caracalla’s flesh. Geta’s lips twitch, his gaze merciless, he crooks his fingers inside.
A harsh curse breaks from Acacius’ mouth.
Bliss twines with the shock of it, the degradation to let himself be breached—
Caracalla moans, he must’ve rocked forward because Acacius is inside him almost to the hilt.
“Do it,” Caracalla urges, “take him.”
Acacius lies fully on the boy, hands digging into the sheets. It cannot happen. He must prevent—
Geta’s oiled cock nudges against the most shameful part of him, a boy more than twenty-five years younger, a weak cruel vulture —
Geta plunges into him.
A ragged breath punches out of Acacius. It hurts though not by much compared to real battle, but the truth of it chokes him of air: Geta is defiling him. Geta is inside him.
Is filling him up.
“Yes,” Caracalla babbles under him, “doesn’t it feel good?”
He will ruin them. He will kill them. Their venom spreads too far. He can’t move. Geta drags out before he jams his cock back in, driving Acacius deeper into Caracalla. They all moan and the slick tightness of Caracalla lessens the sting of Geta’s cock stretching him open. It’s bigger than he expected, or perhaps simply feels thus.
Hot breath by his ear.
“Enjoy it,” Geta hisses.
Acacius almost throws him off. Instead, his cock twitches treacherously inside the other brother and he snaps his hips forward until Caracalla mewls and digs his nails into his arms and begs more, more, more. Pretty, ruined, worthless.
Geta sets a slow, hard rhythm, each thrust pushing him into Caracalla who babbles and writhes and whose cock presses between their bodies wet with staggering revelry.
Heat takes all. Their bodies move together under Geta’s harsh control. Acacius wants to resist and show even in this corruption he can preserve a parcel of honour, but Geta changes his angle and hits a spot inside Acacius that rips conviction from his breast. The gods of love have their way with him. He is helpless under desire.
“Harder,” Caracalla moans.
Geta rams into him. He cannot believe he is between them, pursued as he is pursuing. He grabs Caracalla’s thighs, hands slipping down to the crooks of Caracalla’s knees, drawing the legs up, shifting until Acacius can hook them over his arms and fold the boy in half like a whore. Behind him, Geta curses.
A roughened noise escapes Caracalla, his eyes flying open. He clutches at Acacius, unable to move but what they give him, and Acacius kisses him, allowing the boy to lick into him, hiding his moans inside Caracalla’s mouth. He won’t last much longer. He snakes a hand between himself and Caracalla, touching his cock, rough and without rhythm, but it seems enough for the boy who keens and groans.
“I want it,” Caracalla babbles, “I want his seed inside me. Fill me, fill me up, fill me—”
Hands grab at Acacius’ neck, another digs into his hip.
“Make him come,” Geta says, control unspooling from his voice. “Fill him up.” Geta says, “Like a girl.” Like a slave.
It’s too much. Acacius strokes the boy quick and hard and jams his hips forward as much as he can with Geta fucking into him like a tidal wave dragging him into darkness and sweet and over-ripe death. Hot liquid spurts over his hand and Caracalla shouts, nails scraping down Acacius’ back and Geta’s cock drags over that spot inside him again and again and the world rips into cresting violent frenzy.
He fills Caracalla up with spill after spill of seed, slicking his hole into oversensation and he hears with pallid shock his own whimpered plea.
Another thrust, another, another that drives him into Caracalla’s spasming body, and suddenly heat shoots into him as Geta gasps by his neck, tensing, and Acacius collapses into whirling blackness.
The clement darkness does not last. Small hands nudge his shoulders, and he rolls over, breath heaving his chest. He opens his eyes to see Caracalla’s ruined face, cannot stop himself from staring where his seed leaks from the caesar’s fucked-open hole.
Hot liquid pools between Acacius’ own thighs but he dares not look or touch. It’s done. Geta’s seed is inside him.
He exhales a shaky breath.
Caracalla turns to his side, curling up like a child. A wave of traitorous feeling rolls over Acacius. It must be satisfaction that makes him meek, it always has and he has no strength left to fight it. Caracalla looks at him. The powder and paint has rubbed from his face in patches, revealing his marred skin, and Acacius opens his arms before he can think better of it.
A shuddered inhale. For a heartbeat, hesitation. Carefully, Caracalla moves closer and Acacius enfolds him in his arms. Animal nearness. Safety. It’s a falsehood, he knows, but his body doesn’t tell the difference. Caracalla nestles into his embrace and Acacius brushes a hand over his hair as he would if he had a child to calm against his breast.
Geta slips from the bed, puts on a robe and goes to extinguish the nearest oil lamps. He leaves the ones farthest from them to burn. Twilight.
Acacius holds the boy, wondering how it would be to break his neck. He could do it, one quick motion, the last of his strength. Snap him from his misery.
Weight shifts. Acacius looks to see Geta lie down on his other side, uncertainty in his gaze, hair dishevelled, making him look younger, vulnerable with his scarred skin and large eyes. The boy does not touch him, though he has just defiled him. What fear could still him now? That Acacius might kill him for it? No, he would not lie so close.
“Come,” Acacius confides into the dark between them.
Geta swallows. Carefully he too leans into Acacius’ offered embrace. He holds them both, feels their heartbeats in unison against his body.
Slowly Geta lifts a hand and brushes Caracalla’s arm, drawing a soft noise from the boy who nuzzles Acacius’ neck, breath warm. Geta exhales and closes his eyes and against all reason and honour, Acacius strokes Geta’s hair, his jaw, a scar. Dark eyes look up at him, he feels Geta hold his breath but Acacius says nothing. He knows the cruelty of fathers.
“Acasius,” Geta begins quietly, but Acacius tilts the boy’s head up and kisses him, and Geta tenses all over before he goes limp against him. So afraid. He should be.
A small kittenish kiss at his neck. Caracalla mumbles a word, but Acacius’ heart does not want to hear it.
The brother of death ascends from the underworld to close their eyes.
Lucilla comes to him as a phantasm. He wants to hold her but his fingers fall through her like smoke. Susurration cuts the air. Apollo stands high on the walls of Troy and draws back his bowstring. Acacius is on the false side. Leto’s son will not spare him.
He turns in damp sheets. Corpses lie beside him. So many dead soldiers. Rows and rows and rows of them.
He gasps awake, feels for Lucilla and finds Geta instead.
The boy shushes him. Soft palms frame Acacius’ face, brush back his hair. A sigh flees from Acacius and he leans into his tenderness, he cannot stop himself. He should be home with his wife. He aches for her. But what have they made of him? He will tell her all even if it kills him. What will she think of him? Will she understand? Perhaps not all. Perhaps he does not want her to understand his shame, keep her pure from it.
Geta grazes his lips against Acacius’ mouth and he allows this too. Wants it. Wants to take something back. He rolls on top of the caesar who inhales a shaky breath and slowly spreads his legs for Acacius. Acacius slips the robe from his shoulders. Geta is so quiet, fearful in a way that makes Acacius’ heart race and cock hard. He lets his hands wander over Geta’s shoulders, his chest, his toned stomach, his cock. Geta gasps, and reaches for his brother.
What strange tenderness lies in await, coiled like a snake in the dark.
Caracalla is awake and watching.
A chill runs down Acacius’ back. He didn’t notice. Softly Caracalla strokes his brother’s arm up to his shoulders before he looks at Acacius.
“He wants you to take him,” Caracalla murmurs with a smile. “He is ashamed to say it.”
Then Caracalla’s hand glides down to Geta’s nipple and starts rubbing it. A chopped moan escapes Geta who turns his face to the pillow, gripping Caracalla’s hand to stop him, but the brother simply laughs and lowers his mouth to Geta’s nipple instead, licking over it. Slickness pearls from Geta’s cock, smearing Acacius’ skin and Acacius realises he’s held his breath while watching the brothers, his own cock growing painfully hard. Who knows of this depravity? Yes, they have always seemed close, but of necessity Acacius assumed, an empire thrust into their ill-equipped hands. How long has this been happening between them? Shame twists inside him at how hot seeing them makes him.
“Stretch him open,” Caracalla says, takes Geta’s nipple between his lips and sucks. Geta tautens beneath Acacius, mouth opening around a soundless moan. Such a simple thing undoes the emperor… Acacius cannot stop himself and pinch Geta’s other nipple just to feel Geta’s cock leak more.
“Where’s the oil?” Acacius asks.
“There—” Geta half-stutters, half-grits.
Caracalla laughs against Geta’s chest before continuing to suckle his brother, making obscene, wet noises, one hand caught in Geta’s grasp, the other groping at his brother’s side. Geta lets out a shaky moan, and reaches to retrieve the oil vial from beneath the sheets and pillows. Kept for further use. The thought excites Acacius more than he can admit. He takes it but cannot stop watching as Caracalla snakes his hand lower, his small plump fingers closing around the girth of Geta’s cock. A hot shiver goes through Acacius. It’s so clearly a practised thing. Geta inhales sharply, biting his shapely lower lip. A flush spreads on Geta’s cheeks as Caracalla starts stroking him, and Caracalla raises his head to watch his brother, ravenous, eyes wet with greed. Acacius pours and warms the oil between his hands, his own cock rock hard from witnessing the brothers.
“Stop,” Geta whispers like crushing the word through teeth, no longer a command. Caracalla leans over him, lips spreading in a loose smile. Glint of gold. He hooks a finger over Geta’s lower row of teeth, draws his lips open and Geta makes a quiet, desperate noise, then Caracalla crouches over his brother—
And spits in his mouth.
Acacius almost forgets who he is. This can’t have happened.
Geta makes a wrecked sound. And swallows. A shiver of what must be shame goes through Geta where he lies, but his cock pools clear liquid onto Caracalla’s fingers where they stroke him.
Acacius can’t believe it. He stares openly, mouth agape, cock harder than it’s ever been. Only Caracalla seems oblivious to the deadly insult, that or uncaring, whorish in the way he presses his own erection against his brother’s thigh.
For another heartbeat Acacius watches. Oil drips down his hands. He can’t wait any longer. He prods with two fingers at Geta’s entrance, rubs there until Geta’s breath hitches before he pushes inside. Tight, quivering flesh welcomes him and Geta gasps a broken sound that goes straight to Acacius’ cock. The temptation to retrieve his fingers and simply shove into him clouds his mind for a moment, but this is dangerous enough—Geta lacks his brother’s lewd submission, he would not take kindly to it. Acacius adds a third digit, slowly stretching Geta open who grunts and shifts his hips, long legs quivering around Acacius.
“Is he tight?” Caracalla leers.
The words make Geta clench around Acacius’ fingers. The feeling is so erotic, Acacius grinds his own cock against Geta’s inner thigh. He does not want to take part in Caracalla’s game, and yet—
“Yes,” Acacius says. “So… very.”
Geta turns his head on the pillow, eyes wide and open in a moan.
Acacius thrusts his fingers in and out, adds more oil, makes Geta slippery like a whore. Caracalla watches wantonly, hand slipping from Geta’s cock over his balls, squeezing them for a moment and making Geta hitch his breath, to rub over where Geta’s hole stretches around Acacius’ fingers.
“What are you…” But Acacius’ voice fails as Caracalla pushes a finger into Geta along his own three.
Geta whimpers, and even in the twilight of the almost burned down lamps, Acacius can see the tear trickling down Geta’s cheek. Like a girl on her wedding night.
Caracalla leans up and kisses the tear from his brother’s cheek, then fits his mouth over Geta’s and Geta kisses him desperately.
They finger him together. It’s messy and slippery and so tight, and Acacius can only think of how he will feel around his cock, unable to comprehend that he’ll have both of them, and it almost lets him forget that Geta was inside him, too. That he moaned under him as the emperor fucked him deeper into his brother.
Acacius slides his fingers out and Caracalla follows, small hand greedily pawing at his brother’s muscled thighs, pulling one leg further open for Acacius to fit closer between.
“Take him.”
Geta’s helpless hands on Caracalla’s shoulders.
Acacius lines himself up, rubs his cockhead over the fingered-open hole, pours more oil until it stains the sheets and blissfully presses inside. Geta writhes, his body arching beautifully—less used to the feeling than his brother, but not entirely new. Images flash through Acacius’ mind, of Geta on all fours taking cock, of Caracalla pushing Geta down and fingering him, of them wrestling in the sheets until Geta pulls Caracalla’s thighs open for himself. He curses, pushes himself to the hilt and tries to stay a moment. Harsh breaths. Caracalla’s hand is around Geta’s cock again, stroking him languidly, rutting against Geta’s side like a dog, smearing his own liquid desire along Geta’s skin. Would that Acacius could fuck them both at the same time. The memory of Caracalla’s lewd girl-ish body welcoming him in makes Acacius harder. He pulls out almost to the tip before slowly fucking back into Geta.
Geta tilts his head back, baring his throat, gasping quietly as he takes it, hands trembling where they grip onto Caracalla. The evening before Geta had no qualms to touch Acacius as he wished, but now he seems not to dare. Is it too shameful? To touch the man he’s letting inside. Heat spreads through Acacius. Good. He should be shamed by it. As he shamed Acacius. He thrusts into him harder, leans over him to look into his dark dark eyes. He lowers himself, bracing on his elbows and drags his lips over Geta’s mouth, hears Caracalla make an encouraging sound, and Acacius kisses Geta properly. It’s almost more illicit than fucking him, feeling his soft, plush lips open, licking into him while his cock drags along his hot insides. The boy goes boneless beneath him. Yes, he thinks. Allow me in. I will kill you. He cups his cheek and deepens the kiss.
Weight shifts, movement.
Caracalla’s hands grab at his shoulders, his back, and once more the blood-heat of shame sears through Acacius to be groped by the boy as though he were a whore to fondle at his leisure. Despite himself he moans, thrusting harder into Geta who at last wraps his arms around Acacius’ neck like a child winds its arms around its father.
“Yes,” he breathes against Geta’s lips and kisses him again, harder.
Hands rub over Acacius’ lower back, his ass, grab him, pull him apart. An oil slick finger drags over his hole.
Not again. Not from him.
Acacius gasps.
Caracalla does not relent. The finger pushes in.
What beasts has Severus torn from his young wife’s womb?
Acacius moans into Geta’s mouth, his body clenching around the intrusion of Caracalla’s finger.
“No,” he says.
Caracalla laughs, hyena, maenad, unclean creature. What is denial to a boy like him? The whole of Rome shivers in his grip.
Another digit presses in, widening Acacius for the emperor’s pleasure. He groans, shifts his hips, shoving himself deeper into Geta. The soft mouth parts against his, harsh breath, Geta’s dark eyes glaze wet with tears, somehow more monstrous than without. Can one be child and devourer at once? The blood of thousands pours between them. He fucks Geta harder, presses his eyes shut and takes his pleasure blind. Moans glide to his ear, and for a heartbeat he cannot tell who of the two made the sound. Twins after all. The fingers twist inside him, slicken him, graze against that spot that makes him shiver hot with bliss, and in that shiver he becomes only meat, alive with hunger enough to let Caracalla press close behind him with his cock dragging up Acacius’ thigh to his ass cheeks. Hands pull him open. The oil-slick cock of Caracalla smears across his entrance and ruts there. Invades his body. The shock of it is no less for happening a second time. He moans roughly into Geta’s mouth, who licks over his lips like a lion-cub tasting the gored insides of a torn lamb, moaning himself, a charred, choked sound—
What misery has Acacius brought over himself? He groans, pained, burying his face into Geta’s shoulder as the smaller one takes him. The wretched one. A whore by all accounts, painted like one, always dressed lavishly like some Eastern concubine, forsaking all that is virtuous, honourable, manly, Roman—fucking into Acacius like an animal in heat. He grips Geta roughly, trying to ground himself on his lean muscled limbs as he endures Caracalla’s punishing pace.
His body is not his own. He has no more authority than any other soldier mowed down by the plough of empire.
Acacius moans, caught between them, pushing into Geta while Caracalla thrusts into him. Flesh moves in flesh. Geta draws him into his heat, clenching tighter now that Caracalla shoves Acacius into him. Hands grope at Acacius’ chest, his arms and in the twilight he cannot tell who and perhaps it doesn’t matter, they are a shared monster.
He moans, braces himself on his elbows despite the boy-weight of Caracalla at his back and kisses Geta to escape the black of his gaze. Desire mutilates him, the blooded heat, the lewd muscle that pushes him deeper.
Caracalla babbles, licks over the nape of Acacius’ neck. Teeth graze. The bite comes quick and hard. Another, another, another. The cut on his neck splits anew and Caracalla laps at it, tongue-sting, wanton parasite.
“Isn’t he pretty?” Caracalla’s hoarse voice is too close.
Acacius groans and jabs his hips forward, pulling strangled noises from Geta. Does the emperor allow his twin to fuck him too? His pretty, awful brother? The thought swirls in the fevered marshes of Acacius’ mind, makes his hips stutter, and then Caracalla drags against that spot inside him and the whole world tilts into red.
He comes.
The brothers moan around him, shoving, pulling at Acacius, Caracalla babbling and grunting, and Geta choking on his own pleasure.
Wetness and heat engulf Acacius, hot seed spurting into him and against him. The scent of it overwhelms, the lewd salt of the inside body, slick and wrong and what would his army think—Lucilla, Maximus —to see him this degraded?
Acacius bites down on a moan or perhaps a sob and breathes against the damp flesh of Geta’s neck, unable to lift himself up as Caracalla remains lying atop him, humming softly into Acacius’ hair, small hands leisurely prodding here and there. This flesh does not belong to them and yet they treat him like it does, as though he owes them service in blood and in bed.
Deposition will be the start. Death must follow if he wants to keep Lucilla safe. What use are prisoners of such incompetence and wickedness? The people will be glad to see them dead.
He swallows when Caracalla kisses his nape and an ache twinges in his chest. Does he want to hold him or break his neck?
Caracalla glides out of him and Acacius feels with the blood heat of shame how Caracalla’s seed dribbles from his abused hole to his thighs, onto the sheets.
Geta shivers beneath him. A strange look comes over the older emperor and Acacius retreats as well, feeling the hairs raise on the back of his neck like when a cold wind finds its way inside his home at night.
He rolls on the sheets, come tacks on his skin, calculating the safest way to leave. Is it safe to leave? Or safer to stay?
Caracalla curls next to him, content like a beast after feeding, but Geta stares at him in the dark like he has robbed him of something unforgivable. Acacius hopes he has. Will they let him leave? Must he lie with them till morning and fear for the blade in Geta’s hand to cut his throat in his sleep and pour his blood out? No. That would be unwise, even for them. Acacius is still general of their army, famed war hero, and something tells him that a secret death would not satisfy the boy-emperor. A grim smile finds Acacius’ mouth. He knows what cuts deeper than a blade. He looks at Geta and caresses his cheek, holds his gaze, cupping his face and kisses him like he kisses his dead soldiers in his dreams. Wishes.
Curses.
May they find these children!
Caracalla moves, limbs jabbing into Acacius until Caracalla has clambered over him to fit himself between Acacius and Geta, snug and lazy and so warm. How has this boy been inside him? Fucked him full of seed. Acacius swallows.
Geta seems to loosen with his brother closer, a strange look, but flesh takes its toll, all flesh yearns for comfort.
Caracalla turns onto his side, back to his brother, front firmly pressing against Acacius. The boy’s hair is tousled, his skin blotchy, the paint rubbed off showing his scarred skin. Caracalla takes Acacius’ arm and places it on his waist, dipped in more the way he lies, supple and soft-fleshed like Venus. The meat on him makes Acacius cock stir for an instant. Caracalla notices and laughs, high-pitched, humiliating.
“The general truly is a bull of a man.” Caracalla says it like echoing something back at Geta, who pushes himself closer to Caracalla’s back, fitting the three of them together. A shiver runs down Acacius’ back and he grips the boy’s hip, digs his fingers into his skin, leaving indents, and gropes where Caracalla’s pelvis bones push up through his meat. The boy makes soft deep noises, unashamed in indulgence, and Geta behind him starts grabbing Caracalla’s chest with both hands like a woman’s, rubbing over his nipples. Caracalla moans.
If they continue like this…
Acacius feels between the boy’s legs. The cock there is half-hard, still slick with seed.
“Gods,” Acacius curses, “you are insatiable.” He means it as an insult but the boy cackles and moves his hips, dragging his cock over Acacius’ thigh in so lewd a slide that Acacius’ own cock starts hardening again. Is this how the boy comes to Geta at night? Simply slipping into bed, grinding against his brother? Or does Geta watch when Caracalla seeks his pleasures? He must. The perversion of it throbs through Acacius.
Some day soon blood will cleanse this house. But the night is dark and the boy is warm and willing.
Caracalla pulls him closer, pudgy hands grabbing at Acacius’ chest, the muscle in his arms, prized fighter, object of desire, tangled twitching prey. Pleasure worms Acacius’ belly. How can this abuse arouse him? But it does. He leans in and kisses Caracalla whose sloppy greedy mouth opens for him, and by his cheek his brother, colder again, sharper again, slides his fingers between their lips. Caracalla sucks on them, whimpering and pushing his cock against Acacius and Acacius closes his eyes and licks over Geta’s fingers, too. A small hand grabs at Acacius’ throat. Acacius wraps his fingers around Caracalla’s cock, now fully hard, and starts stroking it. In turn, Caracalla’s knee pushes up between Acacius’ thighs and they shift their hips together, hot, filthy.
Does Geta grind against his brother’s backside? Has he fucked him? Does he want to fuck him now? And has Caracalla had his brother? Acacius moans quietly, rubbing himself against Caracalla’s knee. What would it take for Geta to fuck into his brother now? Images whirl in his mind. They could have Caracalla together. Acacius has seen it late at night during the imperial feasts, boys speared on two cocks at once. Could Caracalla take it? Sweat starts beading at Acacius’ brow and the night air does little to cool his growing want. He pushes Caracalla back against Geta, imagining what it would be like to share that tight heat, to feel his cock slide against Geta’s cock inside Caracalla. To spend inside him together, slicking him with so much seed—
He dares not ask. The boy might pretend at playing whore but he is emperor. A desire such as this can only come from him or his brother, not Acacius.
A choked moan tears Acacius back. Behind Caracalla, Geta grits his teeth, a sheen on his face. Pleasure unmans him. They are diminished all in desire.
The oil lamps flicker, night yet holds dominion.
They rut together like animals. Acacius grabs at Caracalla, wants to press bruises into his skin, wants to open him up with his cock but it’s too much, they use their hands, he moans and presses closer, stroking the boy’s cock while Caracalla’s mouth finds Acacius’ neck, bites there and hard, harder than anyone’s teeth have ever sunk into Acacius, and he grunts from the pain, feels his skin almost split, and there Geta still touches his brother like one would a woman, perhaps a wife. The image of Lucilla cuts through Acacius, flower of Rome, harder and softer than either of them, wrought with power that the emperors leech from her, she who is virtuous of heart, of deed—It has been an eternity since Acacius was so. He’s butchered for them too long. And now this. He’ll take his revenge. He’ll have their heads split open. He calls on the furies. Pluto’s daughters, punishers—may they find and tear the emperors from life!
Some secret murmur between the brothers.
Acacius does not catch it, does not care to, maybe he does not dare. What tenderness nests between them?
Their movements quicken, roughen, until they are only seeking friction, pleasure, and perhaps pain takes part in it—Caracalla’s teeth sink into him again, twisted child, and Acacius strokes him faster, thrusting against him and moaning when Geta’s movements push Caracalla closer, and it is just right, pressure, flesh slicked with sweat and seed and for another time Acacius gives in, perhaps begs for it, and comes—
Moans twine between them, and soon Acacius feels Caracalla’s release spurt over his fingers, and there, Geta’s choked gasp and loosening of limbs, until they all lie breathless and gasping and dreams swarm around them, plucked clean from the ancient tree, bright nightmares, bring comfort, bring oblivion.
Acacius barely turns, exhaustion drags like stones heaped in the folds of his toga.
Lie down in the River, forget, he tells himself. With portents mixes the joy of relief, of being sated so thoroughly. Full of poison. Yes, he will fall asleep with these beasts beside him. May the morrow bring blood or not, his body has no strength to object. And perhaps fate already has its claws in him.