Author: Merle_P -- email
Pairing/Character: Lucius Vorenus/Marc Antony
Rating: NC 17
Summary: But who, these days, is what he used to be?"
Disclaimer: HBO/BBC owns Rome
His children, when we find them in that hole behind Erastes' house this is probably the worst thing I've ever seen.
I'm not so young anymore, I've seen a lot. But this. Caged animals rather than human beings. Half naked, clinging to each other, shivering from fear and cold, covered in dirt and blood their blood. The girls have been raped, I can see it in their eyes the little one, too. The sight hurts me, makes me want to kill someone. Luckily enough, there are plenty to kill around.
It's Vorenus, though, who kills Erastes. He doesn't use his sword, or even a knife. He simply beats him to death, rams his fists into Erastes' face until his head is nothing more than a lump of blood and bone and brain. It's disgusting, but I cannot turn away: He's terrifying like this, raging like a wild animal, not totally human anymore, cruel and beautiful.
The children are watching, too, wide-eyed, and maybe I should tell them to cover their eyes, so that they don't have to see their father like this. But when he finally pulls away, Erastes' blood all over his hands, sweating and panting, Vorena the elder struggles to get on her feet, crawls over to the lifeless body, and spits on the smashed, bloody face. Twice. She's not the cute little squirrel she used to be. But who, these days, is what he used to be?
Clarissa is in the courtyard when we return. Seems to wait for us. She doesn't say anything when she sees the children, ragged and beaten up, when she sees us, tunics dripping with blood, and it's in silence that she starts undressing the children, washing, bandaging, soothing.
I ask her to keep the children for the night, because she's a woman and knows what to do, and that we'll get them tomorrow. I can see that she doesn't agree, but she obeys. I tell Eirene to stay with her, too, saying that I want her to help with the girls. It's not a lie, but I know that I don't tell her the truth, either. Maybe she knows, too.
Then we're alone in the living room, and I'm too tired to even sit down, so I just stand there, watching him - bloody, dirty, his eyes the colour of steal gleaming in the sun - and I wonder if this is what Mars looks like when he returns from the battlefield. He's playing with his knife, twisting it between his fingers, and I can't help but think that he has wiped off the blood, that he has polished the blade, that the only thing he's cleaned up is his knife.
It's done, I say, when I can't bear the silence anymore.
He barely nods. It's done, he repeats, quietly. Now kill me.
I don't even realize that I take the knife he's handing me. Kill me, he says again, and suddenly all that too long hidden pain wells up, floods my innards, until I feel like I'm drowning from the inside. I hurl the knife away from me, as far as I can. I yell at him that I won't do that, that he's gone crazy, and he hits me, hard, right in the face. A welcome pain spreads where his fist has crashed against my cheekbone, and part of me wants him to beat me again. But I've already grabbed his wrists, hard enough to almost break his arm, and then we're fighting, for real. There is more blood, more sweat and heat and his body under my hands. And then I feel him tiring out, exhausted long before by the grief, the guilt and the rage, and soon I've pinned him under me. He looks up to me, angry, pleading, and I understand that he provoked this fight, that he wanted me to get angry. That he really wanted me to kill him.
That's when I bend down and kiss him. There's nothing soft in it, it's hard and harsh and desperate, his lips cracked and rough like mine, tasting of blood and salt and earth. He fights me, bites me, scratches my arms. And suddenly, he starts trembling under my touch like a frightened horse, and he's kissing me back.
He cries when I fuck him, digging his nails into the wooden floor, his body bucking and twitching under me. I say his name, again and again, pray his name, my hand wrapped around him, until he comes, his cum spilling over my fingers, his muscles clenching around me, and that makes me come, too.
He's still trembling when I pull out of him. I help him lie down, and sit next to him, close, but without touching, seized with fear all of a sudden. For a moment, he doesn't move at all. Then he turns on his side, facing me, and raises his hand to my back, tracing the scars that are still there, reminding me of the day that brought us together, that memory of him I'll always have, even if I can never see it. I look at him, and he smiles. You should have killed me, he says, but it doesn't sound convinced.
So I reach out to touch his face, hesitantly, lightly. You won't die. I won't let you die, I say, and know that's a promise I intend to keep.
Disclaimer:Characters (real and fictional) aren't mine, no money is made with these stories and history isn't changed. Damn.