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Once in their youth, Geta had woken to his brother in his bed. Normal, of course, his brother had gone to sleep with him, except it was how he’d found his brother. His moans, his hands, his mouth, all moving too much and being too loud. It had been an awful wakening for Geta; a part of himself he didn’t realize that had been asleep awoke with him. Great and terrible and yearning. It would take time for him to get used to the sight, to be accustomed to his brother’s new habits. But that very first time Geta had found Caracalla with himself in hand, heavy in Geta’s own bed, he had thrown his brother out.
Now, as adults, Caracalla and Geta as emperors who didn’t let fear rule them, one of three things could occur. Geta would wake to the sweet little sounds his brother would make, muffled by his fingers in his mouth. In this moment, he would not touch him, would simply watch. Caracalla would immediately notice his dark stare. He’d allow himself to get louder, to move for his brother to view him better. He would shift his body towards him, and Geta would move the sheets to uncover his work.
Geta would let his brother finish, ignoring his own growing need at the sight, at his sounds. Caracalla simply loved the act too much, sometimes what he wanted was not to be joined, but to be enjoyed. He loved to be watched.
In this scenario, Caracalla would finish alone. He would allow himself to be messy. An exaggerated pant heaving his ruined chest, mouth now open wide, face flushed, and fingers soaked with saliva.
And Geta would kiss his wet mouth for such a good performance.
Sometimes, instead Caracalla would whine. Sometimes, he would say Geta’s name. In these times, Geta would help him. He would push his brother down, let him truly whimper. Geta would replace his hand with his own, gripping him in all the right ways. Caracalla would swan his arms around Geta’s neck, a cry on his lips as he let his brother take care of him. He’d spread his legs and buck his hips, close his eyes tight at the attention. Geta would lean down and lick the tears that sprang to his eyes from too much pleasure, and hold him until the very end.
Then, Geta would kiss him for allowing his help.
In other times, it was Caracalla who reached out. Geta would take notice of his brother across the bed, his state obvious from the very moment consciousness took place. He’d believe himself an enraptured bystander once more, only to have Caracalla be the one to break the barrier between. Geta’s breath would get caught in his throat when his brother would reach for him, sticky hands finding him easily in the dark.
Sometimes, he would take them both in hand. Geta’s would join his quickly: hand over hand, fingers mixing together, voices moaning as one.
Sometimes, he would press and press and press; his hips rocking into Geta’s own, hands free to grip elsewhere. Their mouths too busy to make proper sounds, though Geta could always hear his name on his brother’s tongue.
And on the loviest of those times, Caracalla would push further. He’d no longer be contented with the simple act alone, would need more. Caracalla would move his hand even further, open up beyond what Geta thought he’d accept. And Geta’s hand would join his then too.
In those times, it would be fingers at work, not simply hands. They’d need oil for this act of self-pleasure, but his brother always seemed to be able to fetch it quickly. Caracalla would push one of his own inside himself impatiently. And Geta would swallow his brother’s soft mewl as he realized Geta would take care of him even there.
His brother’s face would flush, body taut against Geta’s, legs cradling him close. Geta would kiss the beading sweat at his temple, encourage him to take more. Caracalla would cry sweetly as Geta gave him what he wanted, as their fingers slipped together in the heat between Caracalla’s thighs.
Geta would content himself with the casual rutting of their bodies. His first priority always his brother’s pleasure before his own. He would wonder what it would feel like if one day he put more than his fingers inside his brother. If Caracalla would allow him to aid him in that act of pleasure too. He would sustain himself on the thought, on the way he could feel Caracalla’s body respond to his touch now.
In these times, Caracalla always came first. He’d writhe against Geta, legs impossibly wide and body impossibly open. Geta would catch his brother’s cry in his mouth and devour it so no one but himself could hear how beautiful the sound. Geta would be delicate as he left his body, though Caracalla would still whine at his loss.
Geta would be quick to take himself in hand, sheltering Caracalla completely as he did so. He’d admire his brother’s face, his body, his wet lips. Geta would stroke himself to the divine being panting in his bed.
For his part, Caracalla would require a moment of rest to catch his breath, but only a moment. Then his slick hands would be on Geta, joining once more in this simple task. It would be Geta’s turn to cry; Caracalla’s name spoken into the space between them. It would be Caracalla to give his brother this blissful joy.
And Caracalla to kiss Geta in praise for a job well done.