Fic: In Expectation (Rome)
Whatever Cicero was expecting, it wasn’t this.
“Where is Antony?” he’d asked, upon entering the man’s home, guided by a slave.
“His bedchamber,” said the slave, bowing. “He left orders to bring you there.”
Irregular, but there wasn’t anything Cicero could do about it. “Lead me there,” Cicero snapped, irate at the abrupt summons, angry at Antony’s presumption, at his irregularity.
What did Cicero expect? More mind games, perhaps. A threat. Domination, intimidation, but this -
Cicero freezes in the doorway, his eyes wide.
Antony isn’t alone. That’s the first thing that Cicero registers - that there are two people in the room. Then - that Antony has a man, another man, almost in his lap, a swollen-red erection curving obscenely in the palm of Antony’s hand. The man gasps, turns his head, mouth open, lips a little swollen, and gives this little moan, of almost shock -
With a jolt, Cicero realizes that the man arching back against Antony’s chest, his legs spread just a little by Antony’s knee, is Marcus Junius Brutus himself.
And Antony isn’t just holding him. By the movement of Antony’s hips, and Brutus’ shifting, Cicero just spots the hard line of Antony’s cock disappearing into Brutus’ body.
“Ah, Cicero,” says Antony, his voice barely breathy at all, “so glad you could join us.”
At the sound of Cicero’s name, Brutus’ head snaps up, his eyes opening in shock. “Cicero,” he breathes, in disbelief, and he moves to get away, but Antony’s hands close around Brutus’ wrists, and Brutus doesn’t have the strength or the leverage to get free.
Cicero can’t seem to find the words to respond to the scene in front of him. Even as his mind recoils, his body responds, a tight arousal simmering inside him. The sight is entrancing, and Brutus - Brutus -
Brutus sags back against Antony’s chest, afraid now, but trapped. He winces, in discomfort. Cicero’s stomach clenches, at that. Maybe this is the first time between them, maybe Brutus isn’t entirely willing -
“Antony,” Cicero rallies, and Antony smirks, at his discomfort. “What is the meaning of this?”
Antony’s eyes trace Cicero’s body, and then he nuzzles Brutus, whispers something in his ear.
“No,” hisses Brutus, and he twists, trying to break away.
“Remember,” says Antony, his voice almost a caress. Brutus bites his lip, in conflict, but then he looks away. In surrender.
Antony shifts Brutus to the bed beside him, pulling his erection free. Brutus inhales, a little sharply, at the motion, and all Cicero can see is that he’s still aroused, still hard, and his eyes are dark - he’s mussed and naked and beautiful -
“Get your clothes off.”
Cicero gapes, stunned at the casual lewdness of the remark, as casually, offhandedly as Antony says it.
Antony glances up at him. “You want to fuck him, don’t you?”
Cicero’s throat is instantly dry. Oh, gods, how Brutus would feel - if he made that moan for Cicero, the low, shocked moan he made for Antony, earlier -
But he won’t give in, not like Brutus. The look that Cicero shoots Antony is full of defiance.
Antony stands slowly, stalks to Cicero like a tiger, a jungle cat, all teeth and claws and muscle, sinuous and graceful and terrifying. Cicero shrinks, but Antony slips around him, behind him, cutting off his escape.
“Cicero, Cicero, Cicero,” sighs Antony, in a mockery of patience. “You believe I’m already making your life difficult, don’t you?” Antony seizes Cicero’s arms, hands digging in too hard, painfully tight. Cicero flinches, but Antony doesn’t let go. “You have no idea,” Antony hisses, in Cicero’s ear. “Look at him.” Cicero turns away, and, “Look at him!” Antony snaps, his patience gone.
Cicero forces his gaze to Brutus, to his body, beaded with sweat, sprawled open. Brutus is barely propped up, on his elbows, watching them with a tense apprehension. His eyes meet Cicero’s, and Cicero’s body pulses with an extreme, horrific kind of arousal.
“Now,” Antony purrs, “take your clothes off, and get on that bed and fuck him.”
Cicero undoes his toga with shaking hands; Antony watches with a kind of hypnotic fascination, not smirking, not triumphant but expectant. This is exactly what Antony wants, and it sickens Cicero to just go along with it, but he can’t-
Brutus shifts backwards a little, as Cicero moves onto the bed, spreading his legs so that it’s the easiest thing in the world for Cicero to slip between them, above Brutus. He trails a hand up Brutus’ side, hesitant to touch, hesitant to go forward without some further sign - he won’t take Brutus against his will.
“He’s been well-prepared,” says Antony. “I’ve made sure of that.”
Brutus shivers at Antony’s words, and his eyes close, his lips parting just a little. Cicero recognizes it, now, for the desire that it is. Brutus wants this, and Cicero can feel his own erection harden at the idea.
“Cicero,” breathes Brutus, reaching out, bringing Cicero down to his kiss. Brutus parts his lips under Cicero, and Cicero is seized with a sudden urge, to lick every last remnant of Antony from Brutus’ mouth.
Brutus moans into Cicero’s invasion, opening further, his hand clinging to Cicero’s arm. But he doesn’t mind, not when Brutus makes that beautiful choked noise, not when he feels Brutus’ shaft rub against his stomach.
When Cicero breaks the kiss, he unwittingly looks to Antony.
Antony’s gaze is fascinated, enthralled. “Brutus,” he says, prompting.
“Cicero, please,” gasps Brutus, his legs curling up. Cicero reaches down, to Brutus’ cleft. Brutus’ body yields wonderfully, Cicero’s fingers swallowed by a slick heat, and the reaction is breathtaking - Brutus’ head falls back, and he makes a delicious whimpering noise.
“He’s ready,” says Antony. “Get on with it.”
Brutus nods, his breathing shallow, and Cicero clenches his jaw. If he had his choice, Antony wouldn’t be there, this would just be him and Brutus, and it wouldn’t be forced.
“Get on with it.”
Cicero guides himself in carefully, the delicate, abused ring of muscle contracting weakly - it’s loose, so deliciously loose (from Antony), and Brutus takes him in like a whore, slick and wanton.
“Ohmygods,” Brutus breathes, as Cicero hitches in, just a little further - not like a whore, Cicero decides, because here Brutus is lost in sensation, drowning and out-of-control, like the whole experience is new and intense and overwhelming. He tightens around Cicero, involuntarily, like his body still can’t believe that something is inside it, that he’s being penetrated and owned and fucked -
Antony shifts onto the bed, next to them. “You like that, Brutus?” he croons, his thumb stroking the line of Brutus’ mouth. “You want this as badly as he does.”
Cicero flinches, and Antony looks to him.
“Sweet, isn’t he?” asks Antony. “And beautiful, like this.” His glance to Brutus has something akin to affection in it - a twist, a contradiction Cicero doesn’t want to understand.
Antony gives him a nod, then, encouragement and permission both. Not an order, not a command.
Brutus surges up into Cicero’s first thrust, seating him even further inside (dizzying, the desire in Brutus’ body), his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the blankets. Antony catches Brutus’ hands, brings them above Brutus’ head, and holds him down - rough but not cruel, and Brutus seems to delight in the restriction, twisting, struggling just enough to make Antony hold him harder.
Cicero’s palms are slick where he holds Brutus’ hips, keeping the strokes slower, steadier. He finds that he’s never satisfied with speed, desperation, that it’s so much more intense, so much more memorable this way. And it’s perfect, the way Brutus arches underneath him, tensing and relaxing, moving with every thrust, caught in the buildup and unable, unwilling to break free.
Antony notices, giving Cicero a critical eye. “You want him to go faster?” asks Antony, pressing a kiss to Brutus’ neck.
An inarticulate, hungry noise from Brutus, and Cicero’s control is nearly ready to snap. He wants release, sweet, hot pleasure from inside this body - then Brutus shakes his head no. He wants this.
Cicero tilts his hips, angling a little shallower, and Brutus clenches violently, a near-scream torn from his throat, his arms straining against Antony’s solid grip. Cicero feels the climax, clenching, helpless, and his own pleasure burns through him.
His limbs tremble, afterwards, though he tries to hide it. He feels like his body has been turned inside out, drained of strength, drained of protest and anger and everything except a crawling contentment, stretching lazily though his entire body. He withdraws from Brutus, carefully, though Brutus grimaces, squirms a little in lingering discomfort.
“Brutus,” says Antony, and Cicero realizes Antony still hasn’t finished (of course he hasn’t), his erection angry-red and stiff, curved towards his stomach. Cicero feels a pang of trepidation, but Brutus seems to know what to do - eases himself up, pressing a kiss to Antony’s collar bone, curling his hand around Antony’s cock.
Antony gathers Brutus into his arms, holding him closer, steadier. It’s somehow fascinating, hypnotic, watching Brutus’ hand slide up and down Antony’s erection, seeing Antony’s expression shift between frustration and enjoyment. Even more fascinating, though, is the tender feel to the scene - Antony is gentle, the way he cups Brutus’ waist, the way he urges Brutus on. As Cicero watches, Brutus nuzzles Antony’s neck, and Antony brings up Brutus’ chin, capturing Brutus’ mouth with his own.
Antony’s eyes, dark and heated, meet Cicero’s gaze.
In that instant, he lets out a low, satisfied noise, and Cicero sees semen spill onto Brutus’ hands.
“I’ll be back, sweet,” murmurs Antony. Another long kiss, and Brutus moves off Antony, settling down against the pillows next to Cicero.
“He’s a madman,” mutters Cicero, after Antony has left the room. “An egocentric tyrant.”
Brutus’ mouth twists, and he turns on his side, facing Cicero. “There are worse things,” he says.
Cicero feels curiously reluctant to touch Brutus, but it doesn’t even matter - Brutus snugs against Cicero’s side, his head pillowed on Cicero’s arm, his fingers tracing lines, figures, symbols on Cicero’s chest.
“What could be worse that a tyrant?” asks Cicero, softly, wondering at Brutus’ simple hunger for touch, even after he’s been sated.
Brutus flushes, looking up to Cicero’s eyes. “I like the way he wants me,” Brutus says, swallowing. “Honestly. Without veils, without lies.” He drops his eyes, then. “Without shame.”
And suddenly, they’re not talking about Antony anymore.
Cicero touches Brutus’ cheek, lifting the man’s eyes to his. “I feel no shame in wanting you,” he says, honestly. “And I do not see you as degraded, for this.”
Brutus searches Cicero’s face, as though there’s a lie hidden there, and Brutus has half-accepted the fact already.
“I would not lie to you,” Cicero tells him.
“Getting comfortable, I see,” remarks Antony, stepping back into the room. Cicero tenses, as though to move away, and Brutus moves closer, daring Cicero to pull free.
Antony half-smiles at their silent exchange. “It’s getting late,” he tells Cicero. “You can stay, or you can go.”
Brutus’ fingers curl on Cicero’s chest. “Stay,” Brutus says, quietly.
When Cicero looks up, Antony’s eyes are on Brutus. “He won’t let me do that to him, you know,” says Antony, conversationally.
“Do what?” asks Cicero.
“Be gentle.” Antony tilts his head to the side. “He fights it, when it’s me.”
Brutus, now, is sparking with defiance. “As well I should fight you,” he spits.
Antony is silent, for a moment; he moves onto the bed, on Cicero’s side. He pauses, a hairsbreadth away from Cicero’s face, then kisses him, his tongue just barely darting into Cicero’s mouth, not seizing, not conquering, but affectionate.
“Thank you,” Antony whispers, in Cicero’s ear, so softly even Cicero can barely hear it.
A pause, then - “You will stay, won’t you?” asks Brutus, shifting up.
Cicero hesitates, and then he nods. “I will.”
“Where is Antony?” he’d asked, upon entering the man’s home, guided by a slave.
“His bedchamber,” said the slave, bowing. “He left orders to bring you there.”
Irregular, but there wasn’t anything Cicero could do about it. “Lead me there,” Cicero snapped, irate at the abrupt summons, angry at Antony’s presumption, at his irregularity.
What did Cicero expect? More mind games, perhaps. A threat. Domination, intimidation, but this -
Cicero freezes in the doorway, his eyes wide.
Antony isn’t alone. That’s the first thing that Cicero registers - that there are two people in the room. Then - that Antony has a man, another man, almost in his lap, a swollen-red erection curving obscenely in the palm of Antony’s hand. The man gasps, turns his head, mouth open, lips a little swollen, and gives this little moan, of almost shock -
With a jolt, Cicero realizes that the man arching back against Antony’s chest, his legs spread just a little by Antony’s knee, is Marcus Junius Brutus himself.
And Antony isn’t just holding him. By the movement of Antony’s hips, and Brutus’ shifting, Cicero just spots the hard line of Antony’s cock disappearing into Brutus’ body.
“Ah, Cicero,” says Antony, his voice barely breathy at all, “so glad you could join us.”
At the sound of Cicero’s name, Brutus’ head snaps up, his eyes opening in shock. “Cicero,” he breathes, in disbelief, and he moves to get away, but Antony’s hands close around Brutus’ wrists, and Brutus doesn’t have the strength or the leverage to get free.
Cicero can’t seem to find the words to respond to the scene in front of him. Even as his mind recoils, his body responds, a tight arousal simmering inside him. The sight is entrancing, and Brutus - Brutus -
Brutus sags back against Antony’s chest, afraid now, but trapped. He winces, in discomfort. Cicero’s stomach clenches, at that. Maybe this is the first time between them, maybe Brutus isn’t entirely willing -
“Antony,” Cicero rallies, and Antony smirks, at his discomfort. “What is the meaning of this?”
Antony’s eyes trace Cicero’s body, and then he nuzzles Brutus, whispers something in his ear.
“No,” hisses Brutus, and he twists, trying to break away.
“Remember,” says Antony, his voice almost a caress. Brutus bites his lip, in conflict, but then he looks away. In surrender.
Antony shifts Brutus to the bed beside him, pulling his erection free. Brutus inhales, a little sharply, at the motion, and all Cicero can see is that he’s still aroused, still hard, and his eyes are dark - he’s mussed and naked and beautiful -
“Get your clothes off.”
Cicero gapes, stunned at the casual lewdness of the remark, as casually, offhandedly as Antony says it.
Antony glances up at him. “You want to fuck him, don’t you?”
Cicero’s throat is instantly dry. Oh, gods, how Brutus would feel - if he made that moan for Cicero, the low, shocked moan he made for Antony, earlier -
But he won’t give in, not like Brutus. The look that Cicero shoots Antony is full of defiance.
Antony stands slowly, stalks to Cicero like a tiger, a jungle cat, all teeth and claws and muscle, sinuous and graceful and terrifying. Cicero shrinks, but Antony slips around him, behind him, cutting off his escape.
“Cicero, Cicero, Cicero,” sighs Antony, in a mockery of patience. “You believe I’m already making your life difficult, don’t you?” Antony seizes Cicero’s arms, hands digging in too hard, painfully tight. Cicero flinches, but Antony doesn’t let go. “You have no idea,” Antony hisses, in Cicero’s ear. “Look at him.” Cicero turns away, and, “Look at him!” Antony snaps, his patience gone.
Cicero forces his gaze to Brutus, to his body, beaded with sweat, sprawled open. Brutus is barely propped up, on his elbows, watching them with a tense apprehension. His eyes meet Cicero’s, and Cicero’s body pulses with an extreme, horrific kind of arousal.
“Now,” Antony purrs, “take your clothes off, and get on that bed and fuck him.”
Cicero undoes his toga with shaking hands; Antony watches with a kind of hypnotic fascination, not smirking, not triumphant but expectant. This is exactly what Antony wants, and it sickens Cicero to just go along with it, but he can’t-
Brutus shifts backwards a little, as Cicero moves onto the bed, spreading his legs so that it’s the easiest thing in the world for Cicero to slip between them, above Brutus. He trails a hand up Brutus’ side, hesitant to touch, hesitant to go forward without some further sign - he won’t take Brutus against his will.
“He’s been well-prepared,” says Antony. “I’ve made sure of that.”
Brutus shivers at Antony’s words, and his eyes close, his lips parting just a little. Cicero recognizes it, now, for the desire that it is. Brutus wants this, and Cicero can feel his own erection harden at the idea.
“Cicero,” breathes Brutus, reaching out, bringing Cicero down to his kiss. Brutus parts his lips under Cicero, and Cicero is seized with a sudden urge, to lick every last remnant of Antony from Brutus’ mouth.
Brutus moans into Cicero’s invasion, opening further, his hand clinging to Cicero’s arm. But he doesn’t mind, not when Brutus makes that beautiful choked noise, not when he feels Brutus’ shaft rub against his stomach.
When Cicero breaks the kiss, he unwittingly looks to Antony.
Antony’s gaze is fascinated, enthralled. “Brutus,” he says, prompting.
“Cicero, please,” gasps Brutus, his legs curling up. Cicero reaches down, to Brutus’ cleft. Brutus’ body yields wonderfully, Cicero’s fingers swallowed by a slick heat, and the reaction is breathtaking - Brutus’ head falls back, and he makes a delicious whimpering noise.
“He’s ready,” says Antony. “Get on with it.”
Brutus nods, his breathing shallow, and Cicero clenches his jaw. If he had his choice, Antony wouldn’t be there, this would just be him and Brutus, and it wouldn’t be forced.
“Get on with it.”
Cicero guides himself in carefully, the delicate, abused ring of muscle contracting weakly - it’s loose, so deliciously loose (from Antony), and Brutus takes him in like a whore, slick and wanton.
“Ohmygods,” Brutus breathes, as Cicero hitches in, just a little further - not like a whore, Cicero decides, because here Brutus is lost in sensation, drowning and out-of-control, like the whole experience is new and intense and overwhelming. He tightens around Cicero, involuntarily, like his body still can’t believe that something is inside it, that he’s being penetrated and owned and fucked -
Antony shifts onto the bed, next to them. “You like that, Brutus?” he croons, his thumb stroking the line of Brutus’ mouth. “You want this as badly as he does.”
Cicero flinches, and Antony looks to him.
“Sweet, isn’t he?” asks Antony. “And beautiful, like this.” His glance to Brutus has something akin to affection in it - a twist, a contradiction Cicero doesn’t want to understand.
Antony gives him a nod, then, encouragement and permission both. Not an order, not a command.
Brutus surges up into Cicero’s first thrust, seating him even further inside (dizzying, the desire in Brutus’ body), his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the blankets. Antony catches Brutus’ hands, brings them above Brutus’ head, and holds him down - rough but not cruel, and Brutus seems to delight in the restriction, twisting, struggling just enough to make Antony hold him harder.
Cicero’s palms are slick where he holds Brutus’ hips, keeping the strokes slower, steadier. He finds that he’s never satisfied with speed, desperation, that it’s so much more intense, so much more memorable this way. And it’s perfect, the way Brutus arches underneath him, tensing and relaxing, moving with every thrust, caught in the buildup and unable, unwilling to break free.
Antony notices, giving Cicero a critical eye. “You want him to go faster?” asks Antony, pressing a kiss to Brutus’ neck.
An inarticulate, hungry noise from Brutus, and Cicero’s control is nearly ready to snap. He wants release, sweet, hot pleasure from inside this body - then Brutus shakes his head no. He wants this.
Cicero tilts his hips, angling a little shallower, and Brutus clenches violently, a near-scream torn from his throat, his arms straining against Antony’s solid grip. Cicero feels the climax, clenching, helpless, and his own pleasure burns through him.
His limbs tremble, afterwards, though he tries to hide it. He feels like his body has been turned inside out, drained of strength, drained of protest and anger and everything except a crawling contentment, stretching lazily though his entire body. He withdraws from Brutus, carefully, though Brutus grimaces, squirms a little in lingering discomfort.
“Brutus,” says Antony, and Cicero realizes Antony still hasn’t finished (of course he hasn’t), his erection angry-red and stiff, curved towards his stomach. Cicero feels a pang of trepidation, but Brutus seems to know what to do - eases himself up, pressing a kiss to Antony’s collar bone, curling his hand around Antony’s cock.
Antony gathers Brutus into his arms, holding him closer, steadier. It’s somehow fascinating, hypnotic, watching Brutus’ hand slide up and down Antony’s erection, seeing Antony’s expression shift between frustration and enjoyment. Even more fascinating, though, is the tender feel to the scene - Antony is gentle, the way he cups Brutus’ waist, the way he urges Brutus on. As Cicero watches, Brutus nuzzles Antony’s neck, and Antony brings up Brutus’ chin, capturing Brutus’ mouth with his own.
Antony’s eyes, dark and heated, meet Cicero’s gaze.
In that instant, he lets out a low, satisfied noise, and Cicero sees semen spill onto Brutus’ hands.
“I’ll be back, sweet,” murmurs Antony. Another long kiss, and Brutus moves off Antony, settling down against the pillows next to Cicero.
“He’s a madman,” mutters Cicero, after Antony has left the room. “An egocentric tyrant.”
Brutus’ mouth twists, and he turns on his side, facing Cicero. “There are worse things,” he says.
Cicero feels curiously reluctant to touch Brutus, but it doesn’t even matter - Brutus snugs against Cicero’s side, his head pillowed on Cicero’s arm, his fingers tracing lines, figures, symbols on Cicero’s chest.
“What could be worse that a tyrant?” asks Cicero, softly, wondering at Brutus’ simple hunger for touch, even after he’s been sated.
Brutus flushes, looking up to Cicero’s eyes. “I like the way he wants me,” Brutus says, swallowing. “Honestly. Without veils, without lies.” He drops his eyes, then. “Without shame.”
And suddenly, they’re not talking about Antony anymore.
Cicero touches Brutus’ cheek, lifting the man’s eyes to his. “I feel no shame in wanting you,” he says, honestly. “And I do not see you as degraded, for this.”
Brutus searches Cicero’s face, as though there’s a lie hidden there, and Brutus has half-accepted the fact already.
“I would not lie to you,” Cicero tells him.
“Getting comfortable, I see,” remarks Antony, stepping back into the room. Cicero tenses, as though to move away, and Brutus moves closer, daring Cicero to pull free.
Antony half-smiles at their silent exchange. “It’s getting late,” he tells Cicero. “You can stay, or you can go.”
Brutus’ fingers curl on Cicero’s chest. “Stay,” Brutus says, quietly.
When Cicero looks up, Antony’s eyes are on Brutus. “He won’t let me do that to him, you know,” says Antony, conversationally.
“Do what?” asks Cicero.
“Be gentle.” Antony tilts his head to the side. “He fights it, when it’s me.”
Brutus, now, is sparking with defiance. “As well I should fight you,” he spits.
Antony is silent, for a moment; he moves onto the bed, on Cicero’s side. He pauses, a hairsbreadth away from Cicero’s face, then kisses him, his tongue just barely darting into Cicero’s mouth, not seizing, not conquering, but affectionate.
“Thank you,” Antony whispers, in Cicero’s ear, so softly even Cicero can barely hear it.
A pause, then - “You will stay, won’t you?” asks Brutus, shifting up.
Cicero hesitates, and then he nods. “I will.”