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The insolent boy. The insolent, ungrateful, idiotic, self aggrandizing whelp. He has forgotten that he sits on the throne only by Antono’s will, only through the careful machinations of his betters, and has had the audacity, the absolute temerity to interfere in matters of policy in the Centaurum, to remove Antono from the Committee on Research on Armaments and Technological Supremacy. Antono IS the committee! House Refa has always led in matters of munitions and armaments and war. To remove him on a whim from this committee, which has been chaired by him, his father, his grandfather and several uncles and cousins of varying degrees of separation over literal centuries, is a slap in the face which will be noted and remarked upon by every single one of his enemies, allies, and his own godsdamned disappointment of a son.
By the time he reaches the antechamber of the throne room, he has convinced himself that the plans must be accelerated, that the stupid preening boy, who plays at politics with no understanding of the work and compromises and sacrifices that are embraced daily by the real power brokers of Prime, the boy who imagines that he deserves to be emperor, who treats his ministers and advisors as playthings to be tormented and discarded with no eye to the future, who does not love the Republic more than himself, must be removed with haste. Refa has orchestrated a coup before. It will be easier this time. No one really cares about Cartagia, not the way they cared about Turhan and Malachi. If he finesses the planned bombardment of Narn just a little bit, maybe he can frame the Kha’Ri for an actual assassination and utterly obliterate any sympathy for the slow growing but irritatingly persistent faction in the Populum and lesser Houses that is calling for a path to expansion that focuses on coalition and cooperation and a cessation of the annexation of lesser worlds and sentients. He’d thought eliminating Jaddo would be enough, but the damned Vocator had made more headway than he’d realized with his absurd philosophies. Perhaps Cartagia will do one useful thing with his pampered, bratty life, and will die as he lived; dramatically and loudly, calling attention to all the wrong signs and symbols that Refa will orchestrate, and perhaps even solidifying his claim to the imperial seat. Yes, this could be for the best. Maybe move the plan ahead by the end. Refa I. A soothing thought.
He reaches the door to the throne room, pleased to see the royal guards at their posts. Cartagia is present, and as a lifelong member of the court, and ostensible friend and confidant of the emperor, Refa has unquestioned access. He stalks through the door as the obedient guard opens it, wrath a tight band around his throat and chest. For once, the room is empty of the increasingly moronic lackeys that Cartagia surrounds himself with as replacements for the longstanding, experienced members of the royal court that he dismisses or executes. Refa is not terribly perturbed by the executions; after all, he has his own running list of first to go when he ascends the throne. He is disturbed by the youth, the frivolity, the vacuity of these new courtiers, some of whom are not even noble born. One could excuse a lovely courtesan or three, and in fact the Entertainers Guild has been known to insist on their inclusion in the outer court, but so many of these new comers seem to have been chosen only for their contributions to the fields of fashion, social climbing, and scandal. Not even a dancer or up and coming musician to showcase and nurture. The only arts Cartagia seems to enjoy are too bloody or bawdy to publicly endorse.
Antono steps into the nearly empty throne room, pushing down the flicker of reverence that always, always flares when he enters this room. He is not a religious man, and he emphatically scoffs at the idea of imperial deity, but he was raised in the court, was trained in the arts of etiquette and the ideology of obedience to The Throne that all Centauri children know, especially one of his standing. And he has spent far more time in this room than the average Centauri child, and rather than muting his awe, the spectacle and importance and responsibility have only increased his awareness of the privilege of standing in this hall of his people, and of the glory that illuminates the emperor. Of the burden of care that falls to the man on the throne, a man who must be father, husband, brother, guardian and guide to 40 billion souls, who must make every choice with the future of those people in the forefront of his mind. The benefits and privileges of rank are of course enticing, and he suspects that most of the citizens of his Republic have a fantasy that shares commonalities with one of his favorites; himself seated on the throne, his darling Celes straddling his lap while he fucks her until she can’t feel her legs and this whole wing of the palace knows exactly how their primary empress sounds after several rounds of six. A marvelous indulgence he plans to partake of many, many times over his long reign, but just that; an indulgence. While this room has seen its fair share of sex, drugs, and experimental opera, it has seen far more of heavy choices for the greater good, of sacrifice and leadership and the terrible love that a good ruler must have for his people; a love that understands that some must be lost or made examples of to ensure the rest can be guided and protected. He is suited for that. He can bear the weight. Cartagia cannot. Does not.
These thoughts flash through his mind as he enters the room, inhales the blend of resins and floral waters that are used only here. The scent itself is a cue, a push towards a proper mindset. It’s very clever and ordinarily he enjoys the idea of scent training generations of noblemen to associate detriil flowers with obedience, but today, coupled with his instinct to reverence, it’s irritating. In his irritation, it takes him a moment to fully register His Excellency’s presence. He’s only a step or two away from the throne, carried in too quickly by the long stride his fury imparted, when he realizes that indeed Cartagia is there, and instead of the casual shirtsleeves and half undone cravat he expects from the younger man at this time of night, the emperor is dressed in his full regalia; sash and coat, pendant of office, pristine white gloves. Refa hates him and still feels his hearts stutter as he takes in the full image. Eyes cold, posture immaculate, his usually smirking, sneering, or laughing face still, Cartagia, for once, appears every inch the Emperor, fits into the room flawlessly, inhabits the space fully. In the space of an inhale, Refa’s anger drops away and he sees Cartagia as his master, his better, his leader, simply by virtue of his bearing and attire and placement. He intellectually understands that this is the result of a lifetime of conditioning and tradition and that this Cartagia is the same stupid degenerate he has been fantasizing about beating to death for five hours now, but he can no more stop the feeling of submissive trust that sweeps over him than he can stop the moons in the sky from orbiting Prime. He is too close to the dais, has let his anger carry him over the unmarked line of appropriate approach. He is too close and too angry and too resentful and he is suddenly, horribly aware that coming here to demand an explanation is a sign of his own entitlement, his own arrogance and he knows he has cost himself something precious tonight.
The constricting band of rage that had choked him earlier seamlessly transitions into a tight collar of fear that disrupts his respiration and pulls him back an unsteady step, back into the illusion of safety. By the time he has drawn and released a full breath, his fury and confidence in his righteousness have fled and given way to regret and dread. What difference does it make if he has to take a small break from the committee? His own standing armies make the committee and its authority an unnecessary veneer of legitimacy. If he survives this night, he will be Emperor himself very soon. He knows Cartagia is unstable, knows he tolerates no dissent, even from those who have been with him from the beginning. What was his plan? He must admit, only to himself, that there hadn’t been one. Overconfidence and overreliance on his own power had led him to feel he could demand consideration, explanation, reinstatement from His Grace. As he meets Cartagia’s dark eyes, disdainful and cool, the utter foolishness of his actions settles around his neck like a noose.
“Lord Refa.” Cartagia is calm, distant, clinical. Antono feels sweat along his hairline and cringes internally. Gods above and below, he is better than this. “We are disappointed, though perhaps not surprised by your visit.” Antono clenches his jaw briefly in chagrin and self censure. He has behaved as predictably as an embarrassed child. Cartagia planned this trap and he flung himself into its teeth. Celes was right; he does need to take a few days away from the capital to spend with her and Senna. If he makes it out tonight, he will.
“Your Grace.” His voice does not shake and he is inordinately proud of himself. He bows, carefully, respectfully, but without undue obeisance. He must not appear to acknowledge any wrongdoing. “I know the hour is late, but had you already retired, I of course would have been happy to await your pleasure.” He deliberately slows his breath, lets his hands migrate to their customary position, clasped behind his back, his own posture relaxed and open. Curious, interested, merely wishing to check in with his elevated friend. Cartagia arches an immaculately groomed eyebrow and Antono thinks it is supremely unfair that in addition to being terrifying and capricious, his emperor is achingly attractive.
Antono has enough contact with humans, the new darlings of the galaxy, to know that his species’ perspective on passion and intimacy is unusual to some. He finds this amusing and sad, another obvious sign that the Centauri truly are culturally and biologically superior to nearly everyone else. Despite their overculture’s seeming fixation on sex, scanty clothing, and personal autonomy, the humans he has interacted with have been rigid in their preferences for the most part and have been confounded by his people’s openness to diversity in sexual preference and practical attitude towards non monogamy and extra marital sex. He supposes it must be partially due to the apparent ease with which human women are impregnated and the ambiguity of paternity that could lead to, but despite the hundreds of years of birth control they’ve made available to themselves, their primitive attitudes towards sex and sexuality are bizarre. He has had many lovers of multiple genders, and so have all his wives. Of all the sources of friction and conflict in a polygynous family (there are many), this has never been an issue. Celes is in fact engaged in the pursuit of a lady who is married to the lord who is currently his most valuable ally and sometime paramour. He has seen no reason to tell her that he’s fucked Lady Timov’s husband, but he knows she would simply mark it up to their shared impeccable taste in lovers.
And so it is that when Cartagia stands and steps to the edge of the dais, tugging off the white gloves that symbolize his separateness and detachment from emotions, Antono is a little surprised and peeved, but not overly so. He hasn’t been with Cartagia before, but if the whelp needs to assert himself, well. He’s slept with lesser men for worse reasons.
Cartagia drops the gloves on the floor and studies Antono for long, painful moments, tapping a long, elegant finger against his full lips. Refa summons his every fiber of self control and waits in the seething silence, schooling his face to show nothing of the anger, fear, incipient lust, and dread that chase each other up and down his spine. He hopes there is nothing but polite interest in his eyes, hopes Cartagia is too childish to read him. He fears though that it is his perception of Cartagia as an immature useful idiot that has landed him here, and so he assumes nothing. His eyes flicker to the guards posted at the door, behind the throne and if it is possible, his stomach drops even more. There is no way out.
His eyes have fluttered to the guards again when Cartagia reaches out and slaps him across the face. He gasps and his control breaks for a moment and he snarls, the fury and fear of the day and the incandescent rage at being slapped like a whining child burning through his calm facade instantly. He almost takes a step towards Cartagia and the guards are immediately moving forward, unsheathing blades and preparing to defend their emperor with prejudice. Refa holds up his hands in surrender and Cartagia waves off the advancing guards casually, coolly, as though Antono is no threat to him at all. The guards return to their places, but the wariness of their poses is as much of a threat and warning as the unsheathed blades had been.
Cartagia sighs, shaking his head sadly. “Lord Refa, you have forgotten your place. Your attention has wandered. Perhaps we should have removed you from your pet committee sooner.” Antono dares not speak, but frantically searches his memory for a forgotten conversation or casual promise to His Majesty that he has not acted upon, but can think of nothing. Cartagia goes on mockingly, “When you are in our presence, we require your full attention. While these fine young men are certainly worthy of admiring glances, surely my personage can hold your focus for just a few minutes?” Antono nods, jerky and uncertain, his surety and confidence stripped in just moments by the uneven footing. He is no longer sure of anything. Surely Cartagia had a reason to remove him from the committee, surely there must be a maneuver he is missing that will clarify today, clarify right now? Why is Cartagia displeased?
Cartagia slaps him again. This time he bites down on his rage, grabs hold of the tatters of his dignity, and lets his desire to live take the forefront. He accepts the humiliation, the pain (Cartagia is stronger than he would have imagined, not that he ever has), and bows his head while still keeping his eyes on Cartagia. “Majesty, I have offended you and I grieve that this is so. If you see fit, I would know why, that I may correct my behavior and repair our relationship.” Cartagia rolls his eyes and sighs. He turns on his heel and returns to the throne. Refa feels as though he is standing on a rope strung over a chasm, feels as though he is not quite doomed yet but at any moment a sword might bite through the back of his neck. He wonders, in a deeply immediate sort of way, how long his brain will remain alive after his head is removed from his body. He has never been this afraid. He does not look away from Cartagia, doesn’t even blink. He knows that Cartagia sees his terror and he can do nothing to hide it.
Cartagia holds his eyes, seems to see straight through the second most powerful man on Centauri Prime to the uncertain youth that Antono was before he became the head of his House, before he learned to control and maneuver and manipulate, before he had the strength of mind to shape the galaxy to his will, to strategize and scheme and create the reality he desired. Despite the significant gap in their ages, Refa feels like a dazed maiden on some horrible parody of a wedding night.
Cartagia is alight with an internal exhilaration, a fierce, clawed joy that glitters in his eyes. Antono does not understand it. Antono is cruel when he must be, is no stranger to the catharsis of dominance and submission as play between adults, understands the messy lines between political and sexual control, has even bent his knee to Timov’s husband in private. This is not that. Cartagia is inhaling his terror and humiliation, is bathing in the scent of Antono’s animal sweat and is reveling in the shale footing he has dropped Refa onto, fragile and cracking, sending him sliding down a slope into… what?
With the barest mercy, Cartagia does not make him wait to find out.
“We have heard a rumor, surely, my dear friend, only a rumor, that there is a fleet being modified in House Refa shipyards orbiting Tolonius VII. A substantial fleet. Modified for harvesting asteroids, perhaps, possibly, for the purposes of mining. However, these battleships are also being modified with rail guns that almost look compatible with aforementioned asteroids. And, while we are still learning all the ins and outs, all the little details and trivialities that an attentive emperor must know, we are almost certain that mass drivers are banned by, hmm let me try to recall… Oh yes. Everyone. Including,” here he pauses and looks up through his lashes at Refa coquettishly, fingertips resting on his chest in feigned shock, “me.” Antono’s nostrils flare, fury again surging through him, this time not at himself or Cartagia, but at whichever whoresons on Tolonius betrayed him. Clarity follows the cleansing rage, and he finds he has recovered enough intellect to respond.
“Yes, Majesty. As I am sure you also know, we signed those treaties under pressure from the League and the Terrans after the Dilgar war. We ourselves have never had a particular objection to the use of mass drivers in combat, and with the help of Ambassador Mollari and his mysterious friends, we can discard those treaties for what they are; petitions from lesser races that we abstain from putting them in their proper place at our feet.” He stops when Cartagia holds up a cavalier hand, annoyed that he can’t defend himself further. If this is what the emperor is annoyed about, it is a very easy fix. This can easily be explained as a desire to protect Cartagia’s galactic standing, to create plausible deniability and claim that Refa only wanted to bring him a fully conquered Narn homeworld, not a mere idea. But the bloody, glittery look is back in His Grace’s eyes and Refa finds himself wary and unsteady again.
Cartagia leans forward, fingers steepled in apparent impromptu thought, though Antono is sure that the emperor has scripted every moment for the next several hours. “You said something very interesting just a moment ago, my friend, my dear Antono,” he smiles munificently and Refa’s blood turns to needles of ice, “what was it, let me get it exactly right, ah yes, ‘petitions from lesser races that we abstain from putting them in their proper place at our feet.’ That is a marvelous turn of phrase, my friend, and it does sum up the problem that you have created for us. Well,” his eyes narrow, “for me.”
Antono barely suppresses a visible tremor as Cartagia continues, “I suppose you and I have built up enough intimacy that you understand that I, Cartagia,” a gesture to one side, “And We, the emperor,” now to the other, “Are one and the same, and when you offend one, you offend the other.” This smile is cold and terrible and Refa is sure this is his end. “I do share your sentiments, you know, that lesser beings need to be brought back into the fold, back under the shelter of our gaze. Really, it's kindness. Seeing that they know where they belong. What they’re good for.” He pauses. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Refa? Knowing one’s place can be very stabilizing? Comforting, in a way. No?” He looks again at Antono through his lashes, again playing the coquette, nearly feminine in aspect. Antono nods.
“Yes, Excellency.” Surely there is safety in agreement. In submission. Cartagia smiles, all teeth and ruination.
“It pleases me so that we are in accord. So much. Very well then.” He leans back, flicking imaginary lint from the red velvet arm of the throne - relaxed, beautiful, regal - holding Antono in his careless hand. “Lord Refa, strip to the waist and come here.” He pats his lap and Antono blushes so immediately, so violently, he thinks for a moment he thinks for a moment he will faint.
It does not occur to him to resist, but mortification nearly paralyzes him until Cartagia’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and self preservation overcomes his honor, a prey animal’s intuitive reactions to predation setting his hands into motion before his higher mind can scramble into conscious response.
As he shrugs off his coat, his most cherished possession, the stunning embroidery a collaboration between his first wife and oldest daughter for the 25th anniversary of his Ascension Day, he thinks of every time he’s said similar words to a woman and wonders if the way he feels right now is how they felt. He hopes not. Maybe if you are accustomed to vulnerability, it is less gutting. But he is not so accustomed. He is the second most powerful man on Centauri Prime.
He drops the coat on the floor gently, hoping he will be allowed to wear it again. With fingers that tremble like a maiden’s, he reaches for the buttons of his grey silk waistcoat. Waistcoat follows coat and the black cravat is the final step before he has only his shirt left. He tugs at the knot, flushing again as it refuses to come undone, staring at the ceiling as he finally pulls the correct end and it tumbles loose. He moves to set it with the rest of his clothes when Cartagia coughs delicately and holds out a slim hand.
“Give it to me.” Stomach flipping at thoughts of all the reasons the emperor might need a bind, Antono quietly steps forward onto the dais and places the fine silk, black shot through with gold threads, one of his favorites, into Cartagia’s waiting hand. He studiously avoids looking at the guards, intensely aware that four - Four! - men that he wouldn’t notice under any circumstances, just part of the scenery, are watching his debasement and degradation with bored professionalism. He is certain there are many other such scenes or worse they have observed from their detected perspective. That awareness does not alleviate the stone of shame blocking his throat. He steps back down and slowly untucks his shirt. Undoes one cuff lace, then the other, aware that he doesn’t need to loosen the cuffs to remove the garment. He unties the laces at his throat, looks only at the royal seal, then wishes he hadn’t as the symbolism reminds him of the man waiting for him. His eyes flit to Cartagia, a foolish hope that this will be enough, that this lesson will end with his partial nakedness. He sees His Excellency loosening his own waistcoat and untucking his shirt, removing his own red cravat, and Refa knows there is no way out. He pulls the soft white fabric over his head and drops it. The air is cool, feels colder than it really is and he resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest to give himself another moment of modesty. It won’t help and Cartagia might interpret it as defiance. There is no defiance in him now and it would be unfortunate if he was executed for being shy.
“Oh, very good Antono. You’re doing so well.” Cartagia’s tone has shifted completely, taken on an affection and encouragement that steadies Antono for a moment until he places it, thinks of the times he himself has used it. With wives distraught after household discipline, with much younger, less experienced lovers, a soothing dominant’s tone to gentle a skittish mount. The surge of anger at the condescension mingles with the relief of meeting Cartagia’s approval. He is even less sure of himself than before.
Gritting his teeth, determined to proceed, he reaches for the fastening of his trousers, prepared to slide them down enough to give Cartagia access to his rear, already bracing himself for the discomfort of being fucked without preparation.
“Ah ah, I did not tell you to do that. Great Maker, you do need to learn to pay attention. I do hope you are appropriately grateful for my benevolence in taking you in hand, Lord Refa.” Cartagia’s exasperated tone, sharp words stop him cold and he feels his hearts skip a beat again as he castigates himself for making an assumption about what his emperor would want. But if he’s not going to use Antono’s hole…?
“Majesty..” He trails off. Cartagia grins broadly. He waits for a protest and when none is forthcoming, simply crooks two fingers to summon Antono to his arms.
Antono slides into Cartagia’s grasp, straddling his lap, sinking into a space in his mind that is grey and soft, absent of thought and decision. It’s comfortable, he finds, if somewhat cold.
Cartagia sighs into his neck, the first genuine sound he’s made since Refa stepped into the room. Antono absently leans into the warmth of his lord’s breath and does not bother to chastise himself for weakness. He is well beyond any pretense of resistance and the small sign of the emperor’s enjoyment sends a flood of disproportionate happiness through him. All he has to do right now is obey. Such an easy thing. Hasn’t he said the same words to subordinates, children, pets? Lesser beings. He almost giggles, but a last vestige of self-control turns it into a juddering inhale, an attempt to anchor himself in the face of...
Cartagia picks up the two cravats that he’d draped over the arm of the throne and twists them through his hands. He examines Refa critically, dispassionately, for a moment, mulling over the possibilities. Decision made, he nods once, then grips Refa’s thighs and pulls Antono towards him, situating them fully on the oversized seat of the throne. They are both slender men and they fit, fit as perfectly as Antono had imagined he and Celes would have, but he must not think of that now. He must not think of her at all, lest her perfection be contaminated in memory later.
“Arms behind your back, no, grasp your elbow with the opposite hand, yes, perfect. Just like that.” The silk bonds are tied quickly and efficiently by Cartagia and Refa distantly admires the skill. Knots have never come easily to him.
When he has finished restraining Antono’s hands, Cartagia leans back and Refa studies his face carefully. The tension of anger has dissipated entirely, replaced by satisfaction, anticipation, and controlled glee. It occurs to Antono that Cartagia is, in fact, aware that he owes his ascension to Refa’s hard work and planning, and that he hates it. While the issue of the mass drivers and secrecy may have given Cartagia a reason to punish Antono, the desire to assert his control has almost certainly been there since before Cartagia’s coronation. Refa allows himself a brief moment of smugness that it has taken over a year for this petulant ruler to find fault with his service, before he reminds himself that he’s only just begun his trial.
With his hands tied, he is unable to take any initiative, unable to demonstrate his devotion and compliance. He rarely consents to bondage, has in recent years allowed only Ambassador Mollari to hold him down while they sport in those wretched rooms on Babylon 5 during his occasional strategy session visits. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s meant to do. He shifts on Cartagia’s lap and is rewarded with a sharp smack on his ass. He closes his eyes, jolts, arches, sighs in hazy acceptance. The grey space behind his eyes is warming for him and it’s almost pleasant.
“Look at you. I might think you enjoy my attentions. Is that true, Antono?” Cartagia grips Refa’s ass where he’d struck, painfully firmly at first, then gentling to a caress, a contradiction to everything else. “Have you thought about this?” he purrs, nuzzling along Antono’s jaw in a perverse mockery of affection. “Imagined yourself here?” Refa doesn’t answer. There is no correct response. He opens his eyes and there is something there that Cartagia likes, because he smiles a fanged smile, and gripping the back of Antono’s neck, pulls him into a vicious kiss; teeth, tongue, and lips demanding surrender. Antono groans, welcoming the direction. Cartagia tastes like brivari and herbs and blood, and it takes Antono a moment to realize it’s his own blood in Cartagia’s mouth; that Cartagia bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and while he knows he should be revolted and concerned, it is among the most erotic moments of his life. He can pretend that he’s so desired right now that this terrifying madman is attempting to devour him, and the passion with which the emperor kisses him makes it seem true. Maybe, in that moment, it is.
He starts when he feels a gentle touch on his maleness, knows it’s not a hand, recognizes the sensation and opening foray. He doesn’t pay it much mind, committing himself to the emperor's consuming mouth, recalling his fantasies as a much, much younger man when he had, actually, imagined himself in this position.
Cartagia holds Antono’s neck with his left hand and with his right, strokes Refa’s lower back, caressing his openings, teasing the slits from which his attributes emerge to wrap around his torso, smirking against Antono’s mouth when he moans, a little bit too loudly, a little bit too breathily. He pulls back from the kiss and Antono whines involuntarily before biting his own tongue to quiet his neediness, too late. He can feel Cartagia tense and flex under him though, and knows that he is not the only one affected by this discipline. Dominance. Whatever it is.
“Lord Refa, are you deprived of affection? Or deprived of a controlling hand? Are the pressures of your lofty position growing onerous?” Cartagia affects a considerate, compassionate moue, given lie by the blood on his teeth and the too wide predator’s cast of his brown eyes. “I am sure I can find a replacement for you. Can give you a position closer to me with less responsibility and more of my attention.” Antono shakes his head, opens his mouth to defend himself and Cartagia pushes the first into his back with a snarling groan.
Antono prides himself on his open mindedness when it comes to matters of passion. His second daughter confided in him with many tears when she was fifteen and on the cusp of womanhood, that the idea of intimacy with anyone was intolerable and revolting. He, being a good father, reminded her that offering herself to her husband in accordance with his wishes and bearing him as many children as his House could support was her duty as a Centauri noblewoman. However, he was grateful that she trusted him with this secret, and he would do his best to find her an understanding match. And he had. Asexuality is far more unusual than pansexuality among his people, but it is not completely unknown. The careful application of money and discreet inquiries found a similarly minded and suitable man who already had a wife he never took to bed, but when presented with the benefits of Lord Refa as a father-in-law, he’d happily welcomed Antono’s daughter into his family, and they are as well suited a triad as can be. In his own household, his first and third wives vastly prefer each other’s company to his, and it is all to the good. They are wonderful mothers and obedient partners, if infrequent lovers. Antono himself is flexible with the role he plays in the bedroom, not only allowing Ambassador Mollari to lead him in matters of strategy and passion, but going so far as to indulge Celes’ occasional desire to dictate the terms for their intimacy. While this foray into submission is unwanted, it is not unfamiliar.
What is unfamiliar is being fucked like a woman. There are lines, of decorum, of gender, of rank, that Antono has never crossed, has never imagined crossing. It is not that he finds this act disgusting; it is that it is so taboo and emasculating that he has never thought about it enough to be disgusted.
He can’t stop himself from heaving into Cartagia’s body, pulling futilely away from the invader, a hoarse cry ripped from his throat at the suddenness, the intensity of sensation, the shock. He knows now why Cartagia bound his hands, pulled him close as though he were a real lover. He can’t get away, can’t resist. A thrum of panic builds under his ribs, hastening his breath and tightening his muscles. Despite his overwhelming urge to jerk away from Cartagia and lurch to his feet, consequences be damned, he is too off balance, too securely held to pull away in his disorganized state. So he buries his face in the emperor’s neck and pants, shudders, feels and fights the pleasure of depravity. Cartagia holds his neck tight, hard enough there will be finger marks later. His right hand still strokes Antono’s lower back, and now Antono recognizes the pleasant sensation for what it truly is; assessment. Cartagia’s fingertips trace the base of each of his attributes, circling and pressing, testing his receptivity. Receptivity. As though he were a virgin being deflowered. He whimpers as he realizes that from a certain point of view, that is exactly what he is.
Cartagia holds him still with a lovingly murmured, “Shhh, shhh, shhh, I know, darling, I know,” a grotesque perversion of a lover’s reassurance, and pushes into the other side, tip stretching the opening from which Antono’s second emerges. Antono keens against Cartagia, not in pain, for it doesn’t hurt, not really, but it is all encompassing. He is, annoyingly, fully aroused, and all of his six have extended to wind around Cartagia’s arms and torso, rutting against the exquisite fabrics that cover the emperor’s tensing body.
He is educated enough on his own anatomy to know that this extra space in his body will make it that much easier for Cartagia to claim him completely. A wave of shame ripples out from the points of connection, prickly and hot, leaving him warm and flushed, still curled against his emperor, his master. The hand on the back of his neck loosens slowly, cautiously, testing his compliance. When he makes no attempt to pull away or even sit up, Cartagia sighs blissfully, lets go of his neck and kisses his temple chastely, with genuine pleasure, wrapping his arms around Antono as his remaining four lengths wend their way out of his clothing and wander across Refa’s hypersensitive skin to skate over his corresponding slits.
It feels so good.
From the outside, the life of a House Lord appears dazzling, decadently luxurious and pleasurable. And that is certainly true. It is also true that there are constraints around Refa’s behavior, Mollari’s behavior, possibly even Cartagia’s behavior, that hold them back from real vulnerability, place fences around the sorts of burdens they have permission to acknowledge, the kind of help they may ask for, the care they might sometimes want. Refa’s masculinity is a formidable thing, a powerful thing, a brittle thing. The cracks in this ancestral shield, wedged open by Cartagia’s penetration into his body, are both a threat to his selfhood and a glimpse into a softer world, a world where he can be vulnerable, doesn’t have to always be vigilant against a lapse in his maleness, can admit to a friend that he is sad, actually. Could stay in his wife’s bed all night instead of leaving her warmth to sleep alone, as he has since he was three months old. Could enjoy a harmless pleasure simply because it feels. So. Fucking. Good. Not feel revulsion at the femaleness of the act.
That unrealized, barely perceived fantasy swirls in the liminal mist between his subconscious and conscious mind, garbling his responses to the taboo he is not resisting properly. Is in fact aching to continue.
He pulls against the silk cravats that bind his arms, reflexively, seeking sensation, not freedom. Cartagia strokes his back, sliding one hand over the other down to the base of his spine and back up again, pausing at the deltas of Li to gently tease him again. Antono’s abdominal muscles clench involuntarily and undulate, drawing Cartagia deeper and trapping him between the bases of his lengths and the walls of his body. The world goes white behind Antono’s closed eyes and his thighs clamp around Cartagia’s hips as he convulses in the throes of near orgasm. Cartagia is no less affected, shuddering under him and letting his head fall back against the throne with a guttural roar. He rakes his nails down Antono’s spine, arching under him and Antono bares his teeth in grim satisfaction, face still buried in the curve of Cartagia’s warm, ever so tastefully scented neck, breathing in the remnants of whatever exquisite cologne His Grace had chosen that morning at his toilet, relishing the tiny fragment of power he has just reclaimed over the panting emperor.
He repeats the movement again, slower, with careful deliberation, experimenting with this newfound sensation. It is no less luminous the second time and he groans at the extravagant pleasure splaying up his lengths, a familiar sensation, blended with the new supernova of near pain, fullness, and fiery rapture at every place Cartagia enters him. The shred of cognitive process still active in his mind babbles on about the chemical and hormonal processes of fear, sex, attraction, love and hate, the biological roots of ecstatic experience and he wishes he could shut himself up.
His wish is granted when Cartagia runs his fingers up Antono’s neck, threading them into his hair with an iron grip - yet another humiliation and violation he will accept tonight - and jerks his head back so their eyes meet. Antono is swimming through the grey headspace he’s fallen into and frankly doesn’t have any fear left to offer. He hopes his absolute awareness of his desecration and abasement will be enough to nourish Cartagia.
Cartagia is flushed, pupils wide, the barest sheen of sweat touching the bridge of his nose and upper lip. Antono thinks he is radiant and terrifying, like a half remembered god from his people’s ancient past who loved and devoured in equal measure, cutting a mercurial swath through the landscapes of myth and legend. He wants Cartagia to kiss him again, wants to taste the alchemical residue of need and loathing that he sees in Cartagia’s eyes, that he is sure reflects in his own.
Cartagia does kiss him again and it is exactly right, exactly enough hatred and want and tenderness and violence that Antono can’t breathe, can only open and respond, can only moan into Cartagia’s mouth, shivering at the slither along his ribs as he and Cartagia entwine momentarily before Cartagia’s homeless four seek the slick sanctuary of his apertures. Cartagia breaks off their kiss and Antono whimpers softly, missing the illusion of care.
Cartagia continues to hold Antono’s hair, keeping his head back, nuzzling and nipping at Antono’s ear as he orients himself along Antono’s spine to complete his conquest. He sighs along Antono’s face and the warmth of his breath is a shelter before the final waves crash.
“Lord Refa,” a murmured hiss, “I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful you are right now.” Antono groans, half pleased at the praise, half mortified to be called beautiful. “You are so perfectly wanton, aren’t you?” He pulls back enough to watch Antono’s face as he sheathes himself fully, completely, all six hilted, no fiction of virtue remaining.
Antono screams behind teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches, bucks in the emperor’s arms, nearly hyperventilating. His eyes roll back and close, sight a sensory burden he cannot bear. Pressure and euphoria mingle and amplify, the voracity of his body for pleasure a revelation. “Gods, Dius, Excellency…!” He recognizes the protocol breach too late, and can’t care when he is in the throes of a reprobate’s gnosis, is nothing but a vessel to receive this proscribed unholy benediction.
Cartagia laughs, a breathless, covetous half gasp that Antono tucks away to recall later in private moments of self gratification. “You’re welcome, my darling, my whore. Oh, Antono, you are perfection.”
He seeks out Antono’s mouth again, less aggressive, more hungry, sighing and panting as the twitch and flex of him inside Antono creates a rhythm, sets their pace. Antono finds a pattern of contraction and release in his abdominal muscles and a certain flex of his pelvis that isn’t quite as all consuming as his initial stumble into the art of receiving this unforgivable pleasure, but that still slowly tightens the coil of bliss than wends through his torso. There is no sound but the mingled gasps and exhalations of the two men and the obscene slick sounds of Cartagia fucking Antono’s slits, pre-ejaculate and existing natural moisture easing the way.
Antono recognizes that if anyone but the emperor was doing this to him, he would call it rape. But it is the emperor doing this, who orchestrated this. He has no choices right now, but the emperor can do no wrong. If the emperor can do no wrong, then obeying the emperor cannot be wrong. Cannot be disgraceful. He chooses to believe this with every bit of himself and leans into Cartagia, returning his head to the younger man’s shoulder, allowing himself to be luxuriously ravaged. He can barely feel his legs, all his body awareness centered along his spine.
Cartagia releases his hair and holds Antono again, more carefully, more possessively, more affectionately than Antono has ever been embraced before by anyone, and he hates Cartagia more at that instant than he did when he heard the emperor had removed him from his committee. He knows he will never get to experience any of this ever again, and knowing what his honor and propriety will bar him from is so much worse than never knowing this kind of pleasure and surrender of self at all.
Cartagia rests his cheek on Antono’s forehead and his hand on Antono’s face, and the rage washes away immediately, his valid frustrations and grievances submerged in a cascade of artificially induced adoration. He will sort truth from illusion later. Right now, he accepts this pantomimed tenderness and stores every touch and sensation for the long drought of his life. Keeps it to look at in indefensible moments of aloneness when he will wish ever so briefly that the weight of his House, his family, his people, his masculinity, would abate for a while. Only for a while…
“Lord Refa, had I known the enthusiasm you would bring to this position - Antono whines, blushing again, face heating under Cartagia’s hand - I would have had you years ago. Although,” his hand wanders down to caress the places where they join, wringing a high pitched moan and shiver from Antono at the added input, “I suppose without the proper incentive, you would have been reluctant to allow yourself to indulge so deeply.” He sighs pensively even as he fucks harder into Antono. “Well. We’re here now, and I find your sweet surrender enchanting,” as though Antono is a seduced debutante. He would be offended, if he wasn’t whimpering and panting and obviously utterly unmade at the newness of it all. Unmade and nearing a precipice, a precipice brought closer by Cartagia’s belittling patronization of him.
“Majesty, please, I - ” He stutters to a stop, choked by his pride and uncertainty and horror at the idea of sullying the fabric of the throne itself with his spend. He turns his face deeper into Cartagia’s shoulder, remembering the impassively observing guards. It’s far, far too late for timidity but he wrestles with it anyway. Only the knowledge that if the pleasure continues he won’t be able to stop himself spurs him to finish the thought.
“Majesty, I need to come, please, I can’t…” He can say no more in this state, filled and held and surrounded. He only hopes that Cartagia’s ire is satisfied enough to allow him to have needs.
“I am so sorry, Lord Refa, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?” Cartagia grins, glittery and gleeful again, but lacking the razor’s edge of his earlier wrath. “Please, speak up.” He remembers the guards too.
Antono sighs languorously, flexes more deeply, tightens around the man filling him just a bit more, and is rewarded with a pleasurably tormented groan from Cartagia that thrills and gratifies him. Unfortunately, it also sends him even closer to his own edge and he shudders, urgency loosening his tongue.
“Majesty, please, I need to come, please, I am going to come, please, help me…” Whether that help will come in permission or cessation of stimulation is irrelevant. He feels a strange dependency, a need to be instructed, to be pleasing, that is nearly as unfamiliar as the gliding friction in his back. He could not make a decision right now if there was a blade at his throat.
But Cartagia is so merciful, is going to help him, is tugging his own shirt up and guiding Antono’s pulsing six to the perfection of his stomach, letting the diamond shaped heads rest against his sweat slick skin, covering all the individual parts with one hand, more or less, offering enough friction that Antono bites the inside of his cheek to delay his climax until he is certain he knows what is being offered.
“Of course you may,” Cartagia sighs against his temple. “You’ve been so good for me, been such a lovely, obedient assortment of holes for me, haven't you, Antono? Isn't it marvelous to know your place, my pet?” Antono heaves a broken, relieved sob against Cartagia’s shoulder, nodding miserably. “Tell me how thankful you are for my affection and discipline, and then you may finish. Tell me now, Antono.” Cartagia changes the synchronized thrusting he has been employing and pulls some out halfway, drives some as deeply as possible, shatters Antono’s own rhythm. Cartagia pushes the withdrawn heads back in, through bands of muscles that are tightening when they should have relaxed, and -
“Thank you, thank you, Your Grace, thank you for your correction and patience, please, please,” he goes rigid against the restraints, a wave of sweat flashing over him as he fears permission will come too late and he’ll have ruined everything, because he’s -
“Good boy, Antono, come for me, such a magnificent slut…” he’s coming now, jerking under Cartagia’s hand, roaring into his lord's shoulder loudly enough that this entire wing of the palace can hear him, spilling milky blue seed over the emperor’s belly, rivulets of his disgrace trickling down to soak into Cartagia’s clothing. The usual contractions of release in his lower back are so much more intense due to the pressure from Cartagia’s impalement and as his body tightens in climax, Cartagia growls, shudders towards him, again the atavistic god in Antono’s mind, bared abdomen rippling as the sudden vice of Antono around him fragments his control and then there’s another new sensation inside Antono; heat and slick and liquid trickling down his back as Cartagia holds onto his already bruised neck and bites his earlobe viciously, riding out the milking waves of Refa’s pleasure. Antono finds the pain delicious, another sign of his achievement in pleasing his emperor, a bruise he will notice every time he looks in the mirror for days and feel shame and pride in equal measure.
Finally it is over. Antono slumps against Cartagia, Cartagia leans limply against the throne. Antono finds tears in his eyes. He’s not crying, not really. It’s just another form of release. He doesn’t think Cartagia has noticed, but supposes if he does, it pales in comparison to the wet ruin of his back. Despite the shared fetal structure, and the adaptability he has just experienced, males’ slits have no internal outlet and every time Cartagia withdraws from him, a gush of semen follows. He can feel it soaking into the waistband of his trousers and can’t decide if that’s better or worse than if it dripped off him onto the floor beneath them. It is revolting and erotic and yet another sign of his descent.
He sighs shakily. Cartagia lifts his right hand from his belly to stroke his face, then stops with a tsk.
“Antono, you’ve made a mess.” He extends his slightly tacky hand. “Clean it up.” Antono’s stomach clenches at yet another deliberate affront to his gender, but he obeys this too, as he has everything else.
He licks the length of the side of Cartagia’s hand, wrist to thumb, before gently taking Cartagia’s thumb in his mouth and carefully sucking to remove every trace of his semen. It’s sweet, almost fruity, leaving a sharp aftertaste. As he repeats the motions, licking Cartagia’s palm to the base of a digit, then sucking that digit clean, he finds it almost unbearably funny that he is using the culinary knowledge he has acquired over the years in order to better appreciate the fine cuisines available to him to analyse the flavor profiles of his semen.
He finishes his task and returns to Cartagia’s chest, unsure of the etiquette of the situation. The floaty grey space behind his eyes still slows him and quiets and distorts his thoughts. When Cartagia cups his face and gently stokes his lips, he relaxes, finally sure he has earned the right to leave this sanctuary with his life.
Cartagia’s hand tightens on his face, drawing Antono slowly out of his mangled thoughts, refocusing him on the moment. “Antono. Antono, open your eyes.” He is patient, gentle, and of course it’s a lie, but the fiction is intoxicating. Antono’s steel blue eyes flutter open, meet Cartagia’s deep brown ones and they understand each other; monster to monster, man to man. “Antono, if you ever try to deceive me again, I will kill you and weep over your grave.” Antono nods dreamily, oddly proud of Cartagia. Maybe the boy is learning to balance his wants with the good of the Republic after all.
“As you should, Excellency.” If he is caught again, he will deserve it. Cartagia beams at him and the warmth is almost enough to burn up his aspirations to the throne.
Almost.