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svmadelyn's Kink/Cliche Challenge. Follows canon, but with a few bits of history thrown in to spice things up. Especially the bit about Memurra. Prompt was 'body painting.'
Title: A Further Account of the Gallic Wars
Rating: R
Characters: Caesar/Antony
Spoilers: Up to 1.1
Summary: At the end of his Gallic campaign, Caesar turns towards an unusual source of inspiration.
The parchment had nothing to do with it.
It was heavy enough in Posca’s hands, cool and smooth against his fingers, and whispered silkily when he stroked across the grain.
Caesar looked at the parchment with such contempt, Posca was certain he’d requisition it to the men’s latrines.
“I can’t just write this on any paper – this is for posterity. I don’t know what I’ll do until you find something decent.” Caesar sunk into his chair, twirling his stylus in lazy circles.
“If I could speak freely, it’s not as if it will disintegrate by the time we get to Rome. It would surely suffice for a first draft?”
“This is the final copy – really, I thought you’d know this by now.” Caesar curled back in his chair. “Find Mark Antony and send him to me.”
Posca raised an eyebrow but said nothing. If he couldn’t meet Caesar’s demands, what could Antony possibly do?
***
Even when Caesar called him to his tent with seemingly no purpose, there was always a motive. Some furtive purpose, hidden in the depths of his eyes. It amused Antony to ferret this purpose out before Caesar disclosed it, if he did at all.
Draped across Caesar’s desk, stripped to the waist, he had no idea just what Caesar’s intent was. But he was Caesar – he was his commander and in the shithole of Gaul he was Rome. Antony respected him, feared him, would follow him to the very boundaries of hell if he asked.
But where was Caesar leading him? Oh, he could certainly guess – if the men murmured that Caesar was a demi-god they equally whispered that he was a deity with a penchant for men both beautiful and young.
Antony’s world was a narrow slit, twisted on its side, and when he arched his head back, Caesar’s hand checked it, firmly, yet with an indefinable tenderness.
“Don’t move – it’ll be easier for both of us if I don’t have to do this twice.” Antony could hear the smirk in Caesar’s voice, and he bit his cheek at the indignation of it all, but he lowered his head all the same, surrendered himself like gods knew how many before him. He steeled himself against the pain, tried to remember the pleasure that would follow.
He had always wondered if Memurra, the engineer, was stretching the truth when he said Caesar was as divine in the bedroom as he was on the battlefield. Now he would find out for himself.
The scratching of the stylus against his bare skin was entirely unexpected, not unentirely painful – and soon enough, it too gave way to a quiet, delirious pleasure.
***
“Writing your accounts - how is that progressing?” Whatever Muse had descended upon Caesar, Posca was thankful for her.
Or him, if the rumors flitting about the servants’ tents were to be believed. Posca wasn’t quite sure just how grateful he should be, in that case.
“Very well, thank you.” Caesar bit at the end of a stylus, glancing through the day’s reports as if gazing out upon an advancing army – quick yet thorough. But there was an edge beneath Caesar’s otherwise calm words, a storm was gathering behind the oncoming host.
“Take care of these dispatches. And see that Marc Antony – ahh, never mind.”
Posca envied Antony’s ability to enter a room, silent as a cat, with an almost pathological loathing. Posca was silent from birth, a homegrown servant of the Julii. Why would a man like Antony ever need to skulk around the way he did?
A good servant knew when he wasn’t desired, and so Posca slid out of the tent with scarcely a nod. But if Antony knew the servant’s art of appearing before the master even bid him enter, he hoped Antony equally knew the art of leaving.
***
Caesar was eerily silent when he wrote. The only sound besides the din of the camp beyond the walls was the scratching of the stylus against skin already red and sore. The silence was intense, heavy, weighing on him as much as if it was Caesar himself. It was oddly comforting, however, and it had nearly lulled Antony to sleep when Caesar’s voice broke it.
“When Commius attacked – Gaius Trebonius was commanding the cavalry with you?”
Antony blinked, half in his stupor, half in the mud of Alesia. “Yes, he was.”
“A dark moment, but you performed admirably.” A pause, as if gathering his thoughts before committing words to flesh. “A marvelous campaign, nonetheless.”
“Something this world will never see again.” It had been marvelous and unforgiving and harrowing, but these years in Gaul had proved them like no fire ever could. The end of the campaign was equally terrifying, returning to a city and people ready not to praise them but to crucify them, if it was in their power.
Caesar fell silent again, but it weighed less heavily in the air, nothing more than the slight chill of the morning breeze. Antony felt like more than a mere scrap of parchment, a means to an end – though his place was still as uncertain, however comfortable, as the air between them.
***
“Would you at least read it to me? It hardly seems fair to make me wait.” Antony knew he teetered on the edge of insolence but as Caesar’s canvas, he had some right to the words. They weren’t his, but they flowed through his body, nonetheless.
Caesar looked up from his transcription, quirking his lips, his brown eyes flickering like amber in the muted sunlight. “I’m not usually one for advance readings.” But something in his eyes softened, turning to honey, and the gesture was so wondrous Antony wasn’t sure if he was imagining it.
“One chapter, perhaps.”
Caesar took the horrors of Alesia, the anguish of skeletal children, dying in the gulf between the Gauls and the Romans, the heart-pounding terror and exhilaration at the sight of tens of thousands of Gauls, swarming all around them, sights that should never have been seen, much less written, and froze them forever in his words. The phrases were muted, softened, but they sparkled, vibrant and dangerous, at the core.
Caesar never used the first person but he was woven into every word and every syllable, and thus he had no need.
***
Watching Caesar write was even more intoxicating than he could imagine. He inked every word and phrase, written upon his skin like the latest map of his conquests. But Antony’s body offered an entirely new geography, and he watched the words traced along his collarbone, down his chest to more sensitive skin. The fluttering of the stylus would have made him laugh but he didn’t dare.
The nib of the stylus rested on his hipbone, and he craned his head to see Caesar contemplating his tunic, rolled down to his waist. Caesar ran his finger beneath the fabric, as if it was merely a river, a mountain, another barrier to cross.
“I have quite a bit more to write.” It wasn’t so much a question as a cleverly construed command.
Antony cradled his head beneath his hands, running his tongue over his teeth. “You’re sure it won’t leave a mark?”
Caesar was already edging his tunic over his hip, his hands rough and calloused, yet meticulous all the same. “Nothing permanent.”
***
“You’re blocking the light. Could you show some control?”
Caesar’s tone set Antony on edge, even if his breath, so warm on his bulging erection, shredded any sense of control Antony had.
“I can’t just command it around!”
“You’re a soldier – have some semblance of discipline.”
“Discipline on the field, not in your tent like this!” Antony pushed himself from the table, and though he was stark naked, Caesar seemed far more vulnerable, as if a single gesture could split him open. “This wasn’t just about your damn writing.”
“It was never about that! It’s more than the words, it’s what we’ve done in this Gods-forsaken place. We’ve stretched the boundaries of Rome, brought this mudhole to heel, and they’ll fawn at those words while they exile me to the farthest reaches of the earth!”
Antony suddenly felt like a stranger in the tent, like an unwanted presence, the words trailed across his body a reminder of those things Caesar wanted most to forget. “The Senate could still come to their senses.” Or it could be forced to come to reason – it had cowered before men far weaker than Caesar.
“I don’t deal with things I can’t control – and for the time, that includes the Senate.” Caesar turned away, his head bowed, and he was a shadow against the glow of the tent wall, a shade of a future both unwelcome and uncertain. “Wash yourself off – I don’t have the heart to write that again.”
Antony yanked on his tunic, the ink smudging into the fabric, black bleeding into a muddy mess of gray.
It was about Caesar’s pride, his ambition raveling to threads in his very hands. It wasn’t about the words.
And it was never about Antony at all.
svmadelyn's Kink/Cliche Challenge. Follows canon, but with a few bits of history thrown in to spice things up. Especially the bit about Memurra. Prompt was 'body painting.'Title: A Further Account of the Gallic Wars
Rating: R
Characters: Caesar/Antony
Spoilers: Up to 1.1
Summary: At the end of his Gallic campaign, Caesar turns towards an unusual source of inspiration.
The parchment had nothing to do with it.
It was heavy enough in Posca’s hands, cool and smooth against his fingers, and whispered silkily when he stroked across the grain.
Caesar looked at the parchment with such contempt, Posca was certain he’d requisition it to the men’s latrines.
“I can’t just write this on any paper – this is for posterity. I don’t know what I’ll do until you find something decent.” Caesar sunk into his chair, twirling his stylus in lazy circles.
“If I could speak freely, it’s not as if it will disintegrate by the time we get to Rome. It would surely suffice for a first draft?”
“This is the final copy – really, I thought you’d know this by now.” Caesar curled back in his chair. “Find Mark Antony and send him to me.”
Posca raised an eyebrow but said nothing. If he couldn’t meet Caesar’s demands, what could Antony possibly do?
***
Even when Caesar called him to his tent with seemingly no purpose, there was always a motive. Some furtive purpose, hidden in the depths of his eyes. It amused Antony to ferret this purpose out before Caesar disclosed it, if he did at all.
Draped across Caesar’s desk, stripped to the waist, he had no idea just what Caesar’s intent was. But he was Caesar – he was his commander and in the shithole of Gaul he was Rome. Antony respected him, feared him, would follow him to the very boundaries of hell if he asked.
But where was Caesar leading him? Oh, he could certainly guess – if the men murmured that Caesar was a demi-god they equally whispered that he was a deity with a penchant for men both beautiful and young.
Antony’s world was a narrow slit, twisted on its side, and when he arched his head back, Caesar’s hand checked it, firmly, yet with an indefinable tenderness.
“Don’t move – it’ll be easier for both of us if I don’t have to do this twice.” Antony could hear the smirk in Caesar’s voice, and he bit his cheek at the indignation of it all, but he lowered his head all the same, surrendered himself like gods knew how many before him. He steeled himself against the pain, tried to remember the pleasure that would follow.
He had always wondered if Memurra, the engineer, was stretching the truth when he said Caesar was as divine in the bedroom as he was on the battlefield. Now he would find out for himself.
The scratching of the stylus against his bare skin was entirely unexpected, not unentirely painful – and soon enough, it too gave way to a quiet, delirious pleasure.
***
“Writing your accounts - how is that progressing?” Whatever Muse had descended upon Caesar, Posca was thankful for her.
Or him, if the rumors flitting about the servants’ tents were to be believed. Posca wasn’t quite sure just how grateful he should be, in that case.
“Very well, thank you.” Caesar bit at the end of a stylus, glancing through the day’s reports as if gazing out upon an advancing army – quick yet thorough. But there was an edge beneath Caesar’s otherwise calm words, a storm was gathering behind the oncoming host.
“Take care of these dispatches. And see that Marc Antony – ahh, never mind.”
Posca envied Antony’s ability to enter a room, silent as a cat, with an almost pathological loathing. Posca was silent from birth, a homegrown servant of the Julii. Why would a man like Antony ever need to skulk around the way he did?
A good servant knew when he wasn’t desired, and so Posca slid out of the tent with scarcely a nod. But if Antony knew the servant’s art of appearing before the master even bid him enter, he hoped Antony equally knew the art of leaving.
***
Caesar was eerily silent when he wrote. The only sound besides the din of the camp beyond the walls was the scratching of the stylus against skin already red and sore. The silence was intense, heavy, weighing on him as much as if it was Caesar himself. It was oddly comforting, however, and it had nearly lulled Antony to sleep when Caesar’s voice broke it.
“When Commius attacked – Gaius Trebonius was commanding the cavalry with you?”
Antony blinked, half in his stupor, half in the mud of Alesia. “Yes, he was.”
“A dark moment, but you performed admirably.” A pause, as if gathering his thoughts before committing words to flesh. “A marvelous campaign, nonetheless.”
“Something this world will never see again.” It had been marvelous and unforgiving and harrowing, but these years in Gaul had proved them like no fire ever could. The end of the campaign was equally terrifying, returning to a city and people ready not to praise them but to crucify them, if it was in their power.
Caesar fell silent again, but it weighed less heavily in the air, nothing more than the slight chill of the morning breeze. Antony felt like more than a mere scrap of parchment, a means to an end – though his place was still as uncertain, however comfortable, as the air between them.
***
“Would you at least read it to me? It hardly seems fair to make me wait.” Antony knew he teetered on the edge of insolence but as Caesar’s canvas, he had some right to the words. They weren’t his, but they flowed through his body, nonetheless.
Caesar looked up from his transcription, quirking his lips, his brown eyes flickering like amber in the muted sunlight. “I’m not usually one for advance readings.” But something in his eyes softened, turning to honey, and the gesture was so wondrous Antony wasn’t sure if he was imagining it.
“One chapter, perhaps.”
Caesar took the horrors of Alesia, the anguish of skeletal children, dying in the gulf between the Gauls and the Romans, the heart-pounding terror and exhilaration at the sight of tens of thousands of Gauls, swarming all around them, sights that should never have been seen, much less written, and froze them forever in his words. The phrases were muted, softened, but they sparkled, vibrant and dangerous, at the core.
Caesar never used the first person but he was woven into every word and every syllable, and thus he had no need.
***
Watching Caesar write was even more intoxicating than he could imagine. He inked every word and phrase, written upon his skin like the latest map of his conquests. But Antony’s body offered an entirely new geography, and he watched the words traced along his collarbone, down his chest to more sensitive skin. The fluttering of the stylus would have made him laugh but he didn’t dare.
The nib of the stylus rested on his hipbone, and he craned his head to see Caesar contemplating his tunic, rolled down to his waist. Caesar ran his finger beneath the fabric, as if it was merely a river, a mountain, another barrier to cross.
“I have quite a bit more to write.” It wasn’t so much a question as a cleverly construed command.
Antony cradled his head beneath his hands, running his tongue over his teeth. “You’re sure it won’t leave a mark?”
Caesar was already edging his tunic over his hip, his hands rough and calloused, yet meticulous all the same. “Nothing permanent.”
***
“You’re blocking the light. Could you show some control?”
Caesar’s tone set Antony on edge, even if his breath, so warm on his bulging erection, shredded any sense of control Antony had.
“I can’t just command it around!”
“You’re a soldier – have some semblance of discipline.”
“Discipline on the field, not in your tent like this!” Antony pushed himself from the table, and though he was stark naked, Caesar seemed far more vulnerable, as if a single gesture could split him open. “This wasn’t just about your damn writing.”
“It was never about that! It’s more than the words, it’s what we’ve done in this Gods-forsaken place. We’ve stretched the boundaries of Rome, brought this mudhole to heel, and they’ll fawn at those words while they exile me to the farthest reaches of the earth!”
Antony suddenly felt like a stranger in the tent, like an unwanted presence, the words trailed across his body a reminder of those things Caesar wanted most to forget. “The Senate could still come to their senses.” Or it could be forced to come to reason – it had cowered before men far weaker than Caesar.
“I don’t deal with things I can’t control – and for the time, that includes the Senate.” Caesar turned away, his head bowed, and he was a shadow against the glow of the tent wall, a shade of a future both unwelcome and uncertain. “Wash yourself off – I don’t have the heart to write that again.”
Antony yanked on his tunic, the ink smudging into the fabric, black bleeding into a muddy mess of gray.
It was about Caesar’s pride, his ambition raveling to threads in his very hands. It wasn’t about the words.
And it was never about Antony at all.
