Rome, this time.
I'm sick. My boss has given me her cold and I feel like death. But apparently that doesn't mean I can't type up the three fics I've written for 40fandoms in the last couple of days. I apologise in advance for the spam.
Title: I've given up on titles: Fandom #3
Fandom: Rome
Pairing: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa/Gaius Julius Caesar (Octavian)
Rating: R?
Word Count: 572
Disclaimer: Not mine. HBO's.
Summary: Octavian has grand plans.
***
Once again, Agrippa's hands are on him.
It's not unpleasant, the feel of him, though he supposes he'd still do it if it were. He doesn't mind the tension in his thighs and his back as Agrippa holds him down bent over the table, can bear the low burn as he pushes his thick, oiled cock up into him. He almost enjoys the rhythmic press of his hips once the initial shock of his entry has subsided, and he doesn't try to tell himself he shouldn't - he may do this for reasons outside of the physical, but he will let himself take some small pleasure in it even if he finds the sound of skin on skin, the slap of Agrippa's heavy balls to his arse, somewhat distasteful. It isn't the worse thing that he's ever done. He doesn't feel used.
He knows why Agrippa does it but it isn't something that they talk about, at all. And it might perhaps be made easier for his good friend by the fact that almost everyone believes that he was had by Caesar as a boy; he tells no one that this isn't true, that Caesar's taste ran in other directions. He doesn't exactly care what they think he did to be named Caesar's heir, it matters only that he is now Octavian no more, but Gaius Julius Caesar.
The name means more to him than he says aloud, more than anyone else knows, even his sister. It's not the money, that didn't last long at any rate; it's not the property or the prestige, it's deeper than that. But for Brutus and Cassius, Caesar would have been king of Rome, brought there by his own designs alone. He was powerful and he was wise, and Octavian finds he's proud to call him father, even after his death. There will never be another man like Julius Caesar.
Those who would take his place are nothing in comparison: there is Brutus who will die soon; Mark Antony, the general given to women and drink, who will never have the strength of will or the focus required to rule Rome. But Octavian has it, as his great-uncle, as his father, did before him. They all underestimate his ambition and his will, just the way that Cicero did but does no more. Even Agrippa, his friend who in the night will seek to subjugate him. It is all a means to an end, all of it, this and the battles and the deaths, the executions he's set his men about. He feels the blood on his hands and his conscience, as surely as if he'd strike the final blows himself. He can see it, Cicero's blood and the others', staining his skin, drying to dust under his nails, clinging to the fine hairs of his arms. But he sleeps well at night, steeped in it. He knows what he's doing, he thinks. He knows what he's doing. They'll see.
What he swore that day, the day that Caesar died, still holds true today; men may try to lay him low, they may conspire and condemn him; Agrippa may bugger him as bluntly and often as he pleases, as they both close their eyes and think of his sister. But no man will ever rule him.
One day Octavian, Caesar, will rule this place, with his enemies dead at his feet. And Rome will make herself anew.
Title: I've given up on titles: Fandom #3
Fandom: Rome
Pairing: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa/Gaius Julius Caesar (Octavian)
Rating: R?
Word Count: 572
Disclaimer: Not mine. HBO's.
Summary: Octavian has grand plans.
***
Once again, Agrippa's hands are on him.
It's not unpleasant, the feel of him, though he supposes he'd still do it if it were. He doesn't mind the tension in his thighs and his back as Agrippa holds him down bent over the table, can bear the low burn as he pushes his thick, oiled cock up into him. He almost enjoys the rhythmic press of his hips once the initial shock of his entry has subsided, and he doesn't try to tell himself he shouldn't - he may do this for reasons outside of the physical, but he will let himself take some small pleasure in it even if he finds the sound of skin on skin, the slap of Agrippa's heavy balls to his arse, somewhat distasteful. It isn't the worse thing that he's ever done. He doesn't feel used.
He knows why Agrippa does it but it isn't something that they talk about, at all. And it might perhaps be made easier for his good friend by the fact that almost everyone believes that he was had by Caesar as a boy; he tells no one that this isn't true, that Caesar's taste ran in other directions. He doesn't exactly care what they think he did to be named Caesar's heir, it matters only that he is now Octavian no more, but Gaius Julius Caesar.
The name means more to him than he says aloud, more than anyone else knows, even his sister. It's not the money, that didn't last long at any rate; it's not the property or the prestige, it's deeper than that. But for Brutus and Cassius, Caesar would have been king of Rome, brought there by his own designs alone. He was powerful and he was wise, and Octavian finds he's proud to call him father, even after his death. There will never be another man like Julius Caesar.
Those who would take his place are nothing in comparison: there is Brutus who will die soon; Mark Antony, the general given to women and drink, who will never have the strength of will or the focus required to rule Rome. But Octavian has it, as his great-uncle, as his father, did before him. They all underestimate his ambition and his will, just the way that Cicero did but does no more. Even Agrippa, his friend who in the night will seek to subjugate him. It is all a means to an end, all of it, this and the battles and the deaths, the executions he's set his men about. He feels the blood on his hands and his conscience, as surely as if he'd strike the final blows himself. He can see it, Cicero's blood and the others', staining his skin, drying to dust under his nails, clinging to the fine hairs of his arms. But he sleeps well at night, steeped in it. He knows what he's doing, he thinks. He knows what he's doing. They'll see.
What he swore that day, the day that Caesar died, still holds true today; men may try to lay him low, they may conspire and condemn him; Agrippa may bugger him as bluntly and often as he pleases, as they both close their eyes and think of his sister. But no man will ever rule him.
One day Octavian, Caesar, will rule this place, with his enemies dead at his feet. And Rome will make herself anew.