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You don’t usually have the privilege of seeing the gladiator fights, but you know the aftermath of them. You hear the clash of swords and the cheering and the screaming from underneath the Colosseum, where you organize and repair the weapons and armor.
Most of all, you hear the Count’s voice as he goads his own champion into taking another life, and you feel the thump of the ax hitting the sand in your fucking teeth, the way it makes the roof shake like nothing else.
The Scourge is the only gladiator you outfit regularly, as he’s the only one who walks back out alive. He is every bit as intimidating as he always is when he descends into the shadows of the gladiator halls, form tall enough to scrape the ceiling, but his walk is different today, tenser, and you run into him in the doorway, tripping over yourself to back up, lest that anger be directed towards you.
He doesn’t speak to you, he rarely does once he comes back from out there , but you’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this, building a friendly enough presence, and waiting for a time where you can go outside the boundaries of your job. You started coming to work without a bra and panties. You never missed the way his eyes strayed for half and second too long when your dresses were cut too low.
It only encouraged you.
You carefully come up next to him now as he places his ax near a prepared cloth, ready to be cleaned and stored until the next time he enters the ring. It was a deliberate move, as you blocked the way to the baths.
“Move,” he says, eyes off to the side, and you let the command wash over you and start a fire between your legs and you hold your ground.
“You just look like you need to relax,” and your words stop in your throat because the Scourge was looking at you , staring into your face, reading you, his green eyes sunken and suspicious.
“Relax,” he repeats back, shifting the word around in his mouth.
“I could help you, if you’d like,” you say and you reach up, taking a chance, to pull your shirt over your head. “With your bath maybe?”
All at once, a cloud passes over his face and he blushes, staring hard at a wall. “You don’t want me,” he says simply, stated as a morbid fact, but it spurs you on, caught between fear, stubbornness, and arousal.
“I do,” you reply, with no room for argument, but the Scourge scowls and takes a step forward, forcing you back against a pile of crates, the back of your thighs hitting the edge of one. All he had to do was walk away to the baths, but he was looking at your face again, not, hopeful , exactly, but hungry, and pent up, the tension in his shoulders and face making him look feral, every inch a monster.
“You’ll get pregnant,” He says, and it’s not a no.
“I take medicine for that from a healer,” you reply, and being bold had gotten you this far, so you hitch the edge of your skirt up, exposing your thighs, and you put yourself on the line, a sacrifice to a man already covered in enough blood to last a lifetime.
“Forget about the world for a minute,” you say, and this time you dare to reach out with one hand, and touch the chain around his neck, a symbol of his own imprisonment. His nostrils flare and you swallow. “Do what you want for a change.”
The Scourge breaks, moving faster than you’d expect for a man of his size, but hands, big, big and covered in blood god s grab your hips and push you up against the crates, up on top of them, and you groan as he mashes his mouth against yours, animalistic and desperate and you let him.
It’s not a real kiss, not really, something that seemed almost a formality because the barest hint of skin that you’d exposed was being groped, hands big enough to wrap around your thighs squeezing and spreading them, making you shiver.
You didn’t want a lover and neither did he-- you wanted to be used and he wanted control and you didn’t think you had ever been this wet in your entire life . Wet from sweat, the heat from his body overwhelming, pinning you down, and wet slick making a mess of your skirt, because you pulled it up, exposing yourself, vulnerable to where his hips were slotted against yours.
You had done this before of course, had your knees next to your ears, but this was different because it was the Scourge of the South and he was taking you with blood and dust still in his hair and the chain from his collar cold and heavy against your breasts, dragging along sensitive skin.
He was on top of you, face buried in your neck, not looking at you, one hand braced against the crate, the other fumbling to undo the buckle of his pants, and you were so fucking exposed like this, breath harsh in the muffled air, the creek of the audience on the stands above you raining dust and fuck you were filthy in every way.
You buried your hands in his hair because you didn’t know what else to do, the spikes on his collar nicking your arms but you could barely feel it because his cock was free, and hard and rubbing up against you. He made a strangled sound when you bucked into it, and you couldn’t help but do it again, the head of his cock brushing past your clit. “Please,” you begged, and you did it again, the slide hot and slick. “Don’t hold back.”
His hand gripped your hip like a vice, dragging your ass off the crate and into open air because he was pushing inside of you, manhandling you to get the best angle to fuck you, and you couldn’t even move, couldn’t breathe because he was filling you up and up, practically into your stomach, riding the edge of pain and pleasure because yes you were wet and hot and open but this was almost too much, the thickness of it splitting you open and he didn’t even pause, grinding up into you with a low growl akin to stone, something cold and deliberately heavy.
You wanted the ride, you needed it and you let all the tension in your body go and just took it , took it as he pulled back and slammed into you without hesitation, as the heavy chain settled between your breasts, as his hand imprinted more bruises into your hip, pushing and pulling you onto his cock, head heavy on your shoulder and breath thick on your neck.
You could hear how wet you were, how fucking sinful it sounded, the slap of his skin against yours, and he was fucking into you, a steady rhythm, a detached one of only needing release and it burned you from the inside out to be the nearest warm body, to be used and discarded--
And your orgasm hit you in a rush, spasming around his cock, throat closed in a strangled scream and you rode it, higher and higher because the Scourge didn’t even slow down, thrusts relentless as you became more and more sensitive
Your thighs burned from how they were stretched, how you were bent in half, but nothing could compare to the ache he was leaving behind, the drag of his cock inside of you leaving you sore and used because he was chasing his orgasm without you, the messy warmth of your orgasm only making him wetter, hotter, the slide smoother and thrusts harder than ever.
He pulled back, both of his hands gripping your hips now and you saw his face for the first time since you started-- his eyes were screwed shut, lip curled in a snarl, blood still staining his cheek but he was fucking into you , pulling your hips down onto his cock over and over, pace becoming more and more desperate.
Your back arched, hands scrambling above your head for something to hold onto. You couldn’t breathe, skin sticky and dirty and your body was exposed to the cold air without him, contrasting with the heat of his hands, the heat of his cock in you, making you pant and squirm and come around him again, shaking from it, gasping and the Scourge broke from it this time, fucking you through it in fast jack-rabbit thrusts, pushing you higher until he came, spilling into you and filling you up, wet and hot and perfect , grip unyielding, grinding deep into you, tension gone from his face.
You stared, and breathed for a moment, aftershocks making you twitchy, and you jumped as his eyes flew open, a surly expression back on his face-- paired with a blush. He pulled out and put you down, your shaky legs barely holding yourself up as he pulled his pants back on, uncaring of the mess, or the way you winced when you put your skirt back in place.
“Thanks,” he said as he picked his ax back up from where it had been placed. “And sorry. For letting me take it out on you.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he spoke again first, voice strangely soft. “I think I know what I need to do now.”
He left without another word, driven by some unspoken decision, and you were left in the storage room, satisfied and shaky, come dripping down your legs, unknowing that you would never see-- or remember-- him again.