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“Look at me.”
Gentle fingers gripped Geta’s chin, forcing his head back, and back, and back. A high, keening whine filled the air as Caracalla’s painted smile stretched wider.
“This look suits you, brother,” he cooed, tilting Geta’s face with ringed fingers. Geta jerked sharply, rings biting into his skin as Caracalla’s grip only tightened.
“You do not agree with me?” Caracalla laughed, one hand drifting down the column of Geta’s throat, pressing lightly on the bulge that kept him speared in place. Hips shifted, undulating as Caracalla watched, transfixed; lips spread wide, knot filling his brother's mouth to bursting point, tears streaking down powdered cheeks leaving a smeared mess in their wake.
“Beautiful.”
Hands clenched behind Geta’s back, the length of silk keeping them neatly in place twisting against his wrists. Not a single red mark marred the delicate, pale skin.
“For all that they say we are one soul split in two, in this we are not the same.” A thumb pressed to the corner of Geta’s stretched-wide lips, teasing the slick skin as if somehow he could stretch even further.
Eyes hazy with need and desire and cruel expectation met Geta’s tear-laden gaze. “Oh, do not look at me so. You were not made to rule.”
A sandals foot pressed between Geta’s spread knees, forcing his stance wider. His skin seemed to glow beneath the flickering light of the braziers, pale-limbed, sleek lines, and ethereal. Nothing about him resembled the alpha he professed to be. That the world expected Geta to be.
A choked gasp. Caracalla's smile turned sharp as he pressed his foot more firmly against Geta's knot. Fresh tears spilled while Geta gave only a token struggle beneath his grip.
“I wonder what would they say, if they could see you like this? Would they still allow you to rule by my side, if they could see how sweet you are for me?” Caracalla mused, his words punctuated by unsteady thrusts of his hips. It had long since passed from the relief of having spilled down his brother’s throat, to oversensitivity of his knot caught and swollen, too big to risk safely trying to retreat, and back around again to desperate to spill again.
Perhaps, now that Geta sank so prettily for him, those token protests would finally abate. Perhaps he would learn to present for Caracalla as an omega should for his alpha.
Geta whined, too full to do anything else. Caracalla’s head rolled back as another pulsing wave of pleasure left his thoughts scattered in the wind. There would be time enough for that. Later. He kicked his sandals from his feet, uncaring of where they landed. Bare toes pressed against Geta’s unused knot, the sensitive flesh half filled out despite the last of stimulation. Caracalla paused until tearstained lashes parted and awareness flickered behind Geta's eyes, before trailing back to tease across the untouched furl of his brother’s entrance.
Laughter echoed through the empty chambers as Geta’s struggling began anew. Caracalla knew it was little more than some silly notion that lingered in his brother’s head that caused him to struggle thus.
“All shall be well. Look at how wet you are for me,” Caracalla cooed, eyes lingering on the weeping tip of Geta’s length, the skin ruddy and dark and desperate. It dripped onto his thighs, turning them slick, leaving them glistening beneath the warm, safe glow of the braziers, cocooned in the darkest point of the night reserved only for each other where no other would dare trespass. “You are mine. Have you not always been mine?”
Fleeting memories, no more than glittering, precious shards flicked to life in Caracalla’s mind. Promises made back when they were still no more than boys. Before the truth of their situation could be realised.
Two heirs. Two alphas. One throne.
Caracalla’s hand found its way back to Geta’s throat. Wide, wet eyes gazed up at him as he began to thrust, the need to fill his brother a second time – or was it third? – overwhelming him.
It mattered little to Geta, or so he claimed. They shared everything else – why not this? But Caracalla saw the truth in the eyes of the Senate, the generals who knelt before them, the slaves who welcomed both their seed.
The world looked at Geta, and saw an Emperor. Alpha. Augustus. Stone-faced and fair in his judgments.
The world looked at Caracalla, at his painted face and glittering jewels, his penchant for bright colours and soft things and excess, and they saw weakness. Alpha in name, but not in nature, no matter if he displayed cruelty or kindness.
Soon, it would matter not. Fever-bright eyes fell to the delicate column of Geta’s throat. Soon, they would all see which of them was Alpha. The texts from Greece had not been clear if scenting would be enough. If filling, and stretching, and breeding would be enough for it to take. It was hardly a hardship to work through each method, one by one.
Caracalla’s eyes snapped down as Geta’s hips twitched, forward, then back. Rocking against his Alpha’s foot. The drag of his cock – slick and full to bursting – secondary, to the teasing glance against his untouched hole.
Filling him alone would not be enough, of that, Caracalla was certain. But it would help take the edge off when Caracalla bit him. He had heard tales that, outside of a true omega’s heat, it could be quite the painful process. That, Caracalla was certain, mattered little. Geta would forgive him.
He always forgave him.
Wetness snapped his attention back to Geta’s whining, shivering form. The way that he curled in on himself – still bound, Caracalla's knot locking him helplessly in place, the evidence of his spent soaking his thighs.
The sharp edge of his smile softened. “Such a sweet little thing. Do not be ashamed, brother. It is as nature intended. All will be well once you become what you were always meant to be. My little omega.”