The sound of squelching had always put him ill at ease. It brought back memories of war, of dying men, of his own heart pounding as he fought to keep still. Fear is not appreciated in Rome. So instead of giving in, he fought his way closest to those who could put him in all the right places. His skill at inserting himself into valuable places sprung a hot coil through his belly, it stirred him to attention. His hand runs his length, bringing himself to hardness, a trait artists and warriors alike hold in reverence. He imagines himself recalled through history in this relaxed pose. Hard stone, supple and wanting, begging more of its audience. 

Brutus’ right hand is hot on his cock, the other traces his torso, raking trails along his ribs, and plying his interested peaks. Restlessly his mind thinks of blood dripping on marble. He thinks over calculations and men plotting at his side. His lover remains unaware of the machinations, investing instead in his own gaudy self image. Brutus conjures Julius, eyes blown wide, his eyes wild in ecstasy, wide in humiliation. Like sand through an hourglass, inevitably forward moving, he sees Julius brought low by a blade running through his spine, his own sweet wine pouring from his gash like nectar of the gods. He will be a blood sacrifice to Rome. 

Echoing like a melody, Julius’ voice returns to him like a dream begging for more. Still the taste of dirt and sweat sting his tongue. The pads of his fingers can still feel the yielding of Julius’ body, and the heat buried inside him. Still he can sense the touch of hairs on his chest, skin hot to touch, he can still feel his lover pressed to him back to front, as if they were they whole of the world. Julius pleading. Relinquishing to his flesh. 

Julius’ hair wild and tangled in the heat. Blood of others, blood of their own, going from hardened to soft to dripping again, bathing them in a ritual of death and life. 

The squelching takes hold of him as he runs his hand over his shaft. He sees what it will be to sink into him in this new way. Julius gasping under him in a way fresh and rotten. It rings in his ears like war cries of victory. It rings in his ears like cries of carnal sublimation. It’s the sound of entering his lover, flesh supplicating to flesh, it’s the sound of breath gasped out due to metal carved wrecks. It’s the sound of his desire. It’s the sensation of his hand inside his lovers chest, inside his lover’s cavities, natural and man-made. He can feel blood in his mouth, blood under his fingers, under his nails, under his eyes. Is it is his? Is it His?

Julius’ mouth. Warm, leaking. None know how beautiful Caeser looks with white pearls beading his lips, ephemeral jewels marking the emperor and his rightful place on his knees. 

He gasps, his hand twisting round his sensitive underside, his fingertips trace the head, they pull, and squeeze, his throat pushes out a rasping sound of pleasure. Julius’ sounds of ecstasy crash through his ears in memory. Julius’ sounds of death crash through his ears in fantasy. He tightens his hand and feels the buzz of the past press tight around him. His touch recalls all their moments condensed into one. The heat of Julius pressed around him. Brutus moans into the recollection, his hips press into his tight hand. He remembers his lover licking away his sweat. A hot tongue laving over his brow, between his ribs, into his navel. His tongue wrapped around his cock. Vigorously attentive to everything he sets his mind to; Julius, the lover, tried to form their sweat, and skin, and seed into one brand new writhing, heaving thing.

A brand new creation. A future spread out before him. An empire exchanged in blood oath. Where his lover sees himself a golden wreathed ruler, brutal in his conquest, lavish in his power, Brutus sees...himself. The might of Caeser becomes his own, the luxury, the rule… all laid at his feet in his stead. All it will require is a few whispered words, a well set time, and finally blood spilled on linen. Julius will blossom like a rose in formation. Crimson and spreading. New holes formed to push new truths into. Bloody gashes formed to fill with a self written future. He will speak for himself while devouring his lover’s lush cries, gasps, and whimpers until all are his. He will have them all. He is, and will be, drunk on them. He is addicted, craving each and every kind of exhale: craving a hoard of unique ghosts of memento mori. 

With new vigor his hand speeds over his shaft, his other reaching around his throat, closing off breath. The only air he wants to breathe is Julius’ last breath. A broken moan escapes him thinking of stealing his last kiss: Julius’ soul caught by his lips, his eyes laid to rest by his gentling hands. His ghost cursed to unrest by ritual fouled. The two of them inextricably linked, violent death binding them through steadfast Venus. 

What will the sons of Rome say of this? What of enemies flung far? The long sprawl of the earth will know of their bond. History’s memory will rest the two of them together, forever. 

With the sense of history painting him in glorious strokes, he can feel Julius’ blood soak his skin creating him anew. His skin tingles, his legs shake. He will take the knife that he uses to pierce his lover, and cut his own flesh to meld the two: blood intermingling. His eyes start to fade as his hand presses harder to his throat. Without thought his body starts to move, flowing like the gods guide him towards his fated purpose. His hips move rapidly, chest heaving, his eyelashes flutter closed. He screams out an incantation, he summons names in invocation. His body shakes, pulses, apart on a scream worshiping his divine supporters. The gods will fulfill his purpose: they will celebrate Rome with his lover’s death and, in turn, his own exaltation.