Ilysseum To Italy
Marc Antony/Lucius Vorenus (hah, semi RPS?)
- “The Aeneid”, Virgil
Antony knows that getting what he wants is simply a matter of knowing how; knowing the right way to press. Vorenus, called to him, doesn’t wish to speak of his wife, and wishes to speak even less of Titus Pullo – saying only that the sword was not deserving of the flesh it was sheathed in.
Antony smiles to himself at having found such a weakness, and sits, silently, head cocked to see the way Vorenus’ jaw tightens. He knows most things, Marc Antony, and he knows that Vorenus is a soldier until the very last. He thinks with his blood, and his fists, and moves to conquer however he can. Inviting is the prospect to Antony, of being on the receiving end of this.
And so weakness is what he’ll from here – kindness and softness and sympathy until Vorenus will be sick to death of the pity which, before, no-one had seemed to offer. Meeting after meeting, Anthony draws it out, his trick; slyly digs his way past Vorenus’ defences and under his skin (like some dark horse pregnant with the promise of destruction). When Vorenus does break, it’s not a day too soon.
Now Antony is not a simple man, but he is bored easily – usually some quick fuck with a boy or girl satisfies, and from then they are his, entirely. No effort, no fight, and Antony tires of chasing after what he wants without anything of what makes it a chase.
Vorenus isn’t his. Antony likes the way he fights back, likes the snarls that rise if Anthony whispers to him where others can see – he likes the push and pull of it, the way Vorenus denies before accepting (exchanging blows until he has Vorenus’ back to the wall and Antony grinds their hips together until Vorenus’ defiance is gone, worn done, and his eyes and shut and his mouth parted). Each fight ends the same way; on some rich bed somewhere with Vorenus underneath him, bucking and gasping, and Antony coming when Vorenus says “please”.
For the first few times Vorenus calls out ‘Pullo’ as they’re finishing. Now, there are more bruises and bite marks on his hips, and his neck, but he doesn’t call out a name at all.
And in the times when Vorenus can’t stand to be in the same room as him when they’re done, but hurries to make his exit, in the dark and the quiet, Antony lies back and thinks about control and time and pressure, and how long it will be until Lucius Vorenus is back at his feet, and how very subjective is the idea of perfection. Sometimes Antony thinks that Vorenus must know exactly how to writhe, and breathe, and whimper, just to please him. Mainly Antony thinks about how everything between them will just come back to how it always is – Vorenus pinned, wrists held, and hot, desperate open-mouthed kisses - biting out contempt and disgust with each one. It’s more like hate than love; they are soldiers, after all.
J.D/Cox, hugely fluffy and daft.