The guard's knuckles were raw from scraping against stone all day. Calloused ridges split open, weeping slow beads that stained the rough-hewn granite blocks he leaned against. Down here, the air tasted of iron and damp earth, thick enough to choke on. Torchlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the corridor seem alive. He spat into the grime at his feet. Another shift. Another night listening to the beasts in their cages snarl and pace.
Beyond his post, the deeper cells echoed. Not with the usual clang of chains or animalistic grunts, but a low, rhythmic thudding. Like heavy sacks of grain being dropped onto wet clay. Over and over. The guard, Gallus, shifted his weight, spear shaft slick in his palm. He knew better than to wander. Knew what bred in the dark corners where the overseers rarely looked. Curiosity was a luxury paid for in blood down here.
But the sound changed. Became wetter. Smacker. A guttural gasp cut through the gloom, sharp as a knife. Then silence. Heavy breathing replaced the thuds. Ragged, like bellows working too hard. The guard’s grip tightened. He shouldn’t. Orders were clear: Eyes forward. Ignore the noise. Feed came at dawn. Nothing else mattered.
Yet his feet moved. One heavy boot scuffed forward, then another. Drawn toward the thick oak door of Cell Seven. The viewing slit was crusted with filth. He wiped it roughly with his sleeve, smearing grime across the wool. Pressed his eye to the cold wood.
Torchlight from the corridor spilled weakly through the slot. Inside, shadows clung thickly. But movement. Massive shapes, tangled. Sweat-slicked skin catching the faint light like oiled bronze. Two mountains locked together. Chests heaving, broad shoulders straining. One man’s thick fingers dug into the other’s back, pulling him impossibly closer. Their foreheads pressed tight, lips locked in a kiss that looked less like passion and more like combat. Silent. Fierce. Primal.
Below, rigid flesh stood thick and proud against straining abdomens. Gallus froze. Breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t training. This wasn’t pre-fight bravado. This was something raw. Something the arena masters wouldn’t allow. He jerked back from the slit, heart hammering against his ribs. Silence pressed in again, heavier than before. He knew their names. Brutus and Cassius. Titans slated to face each other tomorrow.
Gallus leaned forward again, unable to stop himself. His eye pressed against the cold wood. Inside, Cassius had Brutus pinned face-first against the damp stone wall. Brutus’s massive frame shuddered, muscles corded like ship ropes under sweat-slicked skin. Cassius gripped Brutus’s hips, knuckles white, driving himself forward with brutal, piston-like thrusts. Each slam echoed – a wet, rhythmic smack of flesh on flesh.
Brutus’s head was thrown back, tendons standing stark in his neck, a low, guttural moan ripped from his throat. "Harder," he gasped, the word thick with need. "Fill me, Cassius."
Cassius grunted, a sound like stone grinding stone. His own sweat dripped onto Brutus’s heaving back. "Filthy whore," Cassius snarled, voice ragged, punctuated by another deep plunge that made Brutus cry out. "Taking it like a bitch in heat." His thick cock glistened, buried to the hilt, pulling back slick and dark before slamming home again. The obscenities spilled from Cassius, low and vicious – promises of degradation, ownership, the violation complete and savage. Brutus only moaned louder, pushing back desperately against each thrust, his own rigid cock trapped against the cold stone, leaking thickly.
Gallus felt a sickening twist low in his own gut. Repulsion coiled tight – this was forbidden, animalistic. Yet heat bloomed beneath it, unwanted, undeniable. He watched Cassius’s powerful back flex, watched Brutus’s thighs tremble with the force of the pounding. The raw power, the surrender, the sheer need radiating from them was magnetic. His own hand drifted unconsciously lower, pressing against the sudden, betraying hardness straining against his worn linen subligaculum. Shame burned his cheeks, warring with the hypnotic rhythm of flesh slapping flesh.
Cassius’s thrusts grew frantic, losing their brutal precision. "Gonna ... seed you deep," he choked out, voice cracking.
Brutus whimpered, a high, broken sound. "Yes! Now!" His own hips jerked wildly.
Cassius roared – a raw, animal sound that echoed off the stones – as his body locked, hips grinding flush against Brutus’s sweat-slicked backside. Every muscle in his thick torso stood out like carved granite, trembling with the force of his release. Brutus gasped, arching violently against the wall as Cassius pumped deep, rhythmic pulses of hot seed into him. The sensation was overwhelming, a scalding flood filling his core, triggering his own desperate climax. Brutus’s thick cock jerked violently against the rough stone, spraying thick ropes of white semen in frantic arcs. It splattered against the damp wall, dripping in viscous streaks down towards the filthy straw below. The smell, thick and pungent, mingled with sweat and damp earth.
Cassius slumped forward, his broad chest pressing hard against Brutus’s heaving back, pinning him. His breath came in ragged, hot gusts against Brutus’s neck. He stayed buried deep, pulsing weakly inside the tight heat, his fingers digging possessively into Brutus’s hips.
"Mine," Cassius rasped, the word thick and guttural, devoid of tenderness, pure possession. Brutus shuddered, his own release spent, muscles trembling with exhaustion and the aftershocks. He leaned his forehead against the cold stone, eyes closed, breathing hard. Cassius’s seed felt impossibly hot inside him, a claiming mark deeper than any scar.
Beyond the slit, Gallus’s knuckles were white where he gripped his spear shaft. His own breath hitched, shallow and fast. The scene burned into his mind: the raw power, the obscene intimacy, the thick streams painting the wall. Shame warred violently with a fierce, unwelcome heat coiling low in his belly. He felt trapped, pinned by his own voyeurism and the forbidden intensity unfolding mere feet away. A bead of sweat traced a cold path down his temple. He couldn't tear his eye away.
Inside the cell, the heavy silence returned, broken only by their harsh breathing. Cassius finally pulled back slowly, his thick cock slipping free with a wet sound.
Brutus sagged against the wall, spent. Cassius’s seed trickled down his inner thigh, hot against his cooling skin. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. Cassius’s presence was a furnace at his back, radiating heat and dominance.
Cassius wiped his hand roughly across his mouth, smearing sweat and spit. His eyes, dark and predatory, scanned Brutus’s trembling form. "Tomorrow," he growled, the word thick with promise. "The crowd will see who owns you."
Brutus pushed himself upright, muscles protesting. He turned, meeting Cassius’s stare. His own eyes burned, not with submission, but with a fierce, defiant heat. "They’ll see you break," he rasped, voice raw. "They’ll watch you bleed."
A slow, brutal smile spread across Cassius’s face. He stepped closer, crowding Brutus against the wall again. His calloused palm slapped hard against Brutus’s chest, right over the pounding heart beneath. "This?" Cassius leaned in, his breath hot on Brutus’s lips. "This is already mine."
Outside, Gallus flinched. The intimacy was more shocking than the violence. He pressed his forehead against the cold oak, the rough grain digging into his skin. His own cock throbbed painfully against his subligaculum, a traitorous pulse he couldn’t deny. Shame choked him. He was a guard. Legion trained. Yet here he stood, transfixed by two condemned men rutting in the dark like beasts.
A sudden scrape echoed down the corridor – hobnailed boots on stone. Gallus jerked back from the door slit, heart hammering against his ribs. Torchlight flickered further down the passage. Overseer. Patrol. He fumbled for his spear, trying to smooth his expression into blank indifference. The footsteps grew louder, deliberate. Closer to Cell Seven.
Gallus froze, trapped between the oak door and the approaching overseer. His knuckles whitened on the spear shaft. If they caught him watching …
Inside the cell, the heavy breathing ceased instantly. Cassius’s predatory grin vanished, replaced by cold alertness. He shoved Brutus roughly aside, putting space between them, his thick cock still glistening wetly in the dim light. Brutus stumbled, catching himself against the wall, wiping furiously at the mess on his thigh with a handful of filthy straw.
Both men turned toward the door, faces hardening into the familiar, impassive masks of arena beasts. The raw intimacy vanished, replaced by coiled tension. Two predators scenting a new threat.
The footsteps halted right outside. A heavy fist slammed against the oak, making the door shudder in its frame. "Quiet in there!" barked a voice Gallus recognized – Decimus, the head overseer, cold and efficient. "Save it for the sand tomorrow, dogs. Or I’ll flay the hide off both of you." Silence answered him. Only the faint drip of water from the ceiling echoed in the corridor. Decimus grunted, satisfied. His footsteps retreated, fading down the passageway.
Gallus sagged against the opposite wall, letting out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Sweat soaked his tunic beneath his armor. He risked one last glance through the slit. Cassius stood tall, utterly unashamed, staring defiantly at the door as he ran his hand almost unconsciously over the rough wood.
Brutus leaned back against the stone, eyes closed, face a mask of exhaustion, but his fist clenched tight at his side. Cassius’s gaze flicked to Brutus, lingering on the clenched fist. A muscle jumped in Cassius’s jaw. No words passed between them, but the air crackled with unfinished business. Tomorrow’s fight wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about settling something far deeper, far darker, born in the sweat and seed of this filthy cell.
Gallus finally tore his eye away, the image of Brutus’s clenched fist burning alongside the memory of Cassius’s claiming thrusts. He retreated down the corridor, spear dragging, his own traitorous pulse still throbbing low and insistent.
Inside Cell Seven, the silence thickened, charged like storm air. Cassius didn’t move. His gaze remained locked on Brutus, who hadn’t opened his eyes. The torchlight from the slit painted harsh lines across Brutus’s face – exhaustion etched deep, but beneath it, a simmering fury that tightened the cords in his neck. Cassius’s seed cooled on Brutus’s thigh, a sticky reminder.
"You think that changes anything?" Brutus’s voice was a low rasp, scraping against the stones. He finally opened his eyes, meeting Cassius’s stare. There was no submission there, only a banked fire. "Tomorrow, I carve that arrogance out of you."
Cassius snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound. He took a deliberate step closer, his nakedness a weapon. "You begged for it," he reminded him, voice thick with contempt. "Moaned like a dockside whore." His eyes dropped pointedly to the mess drying on Brutus’s leg. "My mark’s inside you. Deeper than any blade."
Brutus pushed off the wall, forcing himself upright despite the ache in his muscles, the lingering tremor in his thighs. He stood his ground, inches from Cassius. The air crackled. "Mark?" Brutus spat onto the straw between them. "It washes off. Your blood won't." He leaned in, his breath hot on Cassius’s face. "I’ll spill it slow. Let the crowd taste your fear."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Cassius’s lips. He didn’t flinch. Instead, his hand shot out, rough fingers wrapping around the back of Brutus’s neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads slammed together. "You’re mine," Cassius growled, the words vibrating against Brutus’s skin. "Body and rage. Tomorrow proves it."
Brutus wrenched free, shoving Cassius back with surprising force. "Prove it now," he snarled, fists clenching, muscles coiling. The raw challenge hung between them, thick as the stench of sex and sweat.
Cassius laughed, a low, grating sound devoid of humor. He turned away, deliberately exposing his broad back – a gesture of utter disdain. "Sleep," he commanded, settling onto the filthy straw pile in the corner. "Dream of my cock. Tomorrow, you’ll feel my sword." He closed his eyes, a picture of arrogant repose, leaving Brutus trembling with impotent fury in the center of the cell.
Brutus stared at Cassius’s prone form, the rise and fall of his chest. The seed inside him felt cold now. Heavy. A promise of violence yet to come. He wiped his thigh again, harder, scraping skin raw. Tomorrow. The sand would drink deep.
Brutus stood rigid in the gloom, knuckles white as he stared at Cassius’s sprawled form. The arrogant rise and fall of that broad chest was a taunt. Every breath echoed the wet slap of flesh from moments before — the claiming thrusts, the guttural commands, the scalding flood inside him that still trickled down his thigh. He scrubbed at it again, the rough motion scraping skin raw. Cassius’s seed wasn’t a mark. It was a challenge carved in salt. Tomorrow, he’d answer it in blood.
Torchlight flickered through the slit, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters across Cassius’s closed eyelids. Brutus’s gaze traced the thick column of his throat, the pulse beating steady beneath sweat-slicked skin. So calm. So certain. Fury coiled hot and tight in Brutus’s gut. He could cross the cell in two strides. Drive his knee into that exposed ribcage. Feel bone crack. Hear Cassius gasp. The image bloomed vivid—blood on straw, shock widening those arrogant eyes. His fists trembled.
But Cassius shifted, a low grunt escaping him as he settled deeper into the filthy bedding. One massive arm draped over his abdomen, fingers brushing the base of his own spent cock, still glistening faintly. A conqueror’s repose. Brutus’s jaw clenched until his teeth ached. No. Not here. Not in the dark like rats. The arena awaited. Sand thirsty for Cassius’s arrogance. Let him strut before the mob. Let him taste the roar of the crowd believing himself invincible. Then Brutus would shatter him. Slowly.
Outside, Gallus pressed his back against the cold stone wall, spear shaft slick in his sweating palm. The silence from Cell Seven was heavier now. Charged. He’d heard the hissed threats, the scrape of flesh on stone. Felt the violence simmering beneath the quiet. His own pulse hammered, a traitorous echo of the raw energy leaking through the oak. Shame warred with fascination — the memory of Cassius’s brutal thrusts, Brutus’s desperate arch, the thick streams painting stone. He adjusted his grip on the spear, knuckles cracking. Dawn couldn’t come soon enough.
Inside, Cassius’s lips curved faintly in the dark. He hadn’t slept. Could feel Brutus’s burning stare like a brand. Good. Let the fool seethe. Let him choke on his rage. Every tremor in Brutus’s clenched fists, every ragged breath — it was proof. The seed inside him, the bruises blooming on his hips, the raw scrape of stone against his cock … Cassius owned it all. Tomorrow, he’d prove it under the sun. The crowd would roar his name as Brutus bled out at his feet. A low hum vibrated in Cassius’s chest. Almost a purr. Victory tasted sweeter than sweat.
Brutus tore his gaze away. The sight of Cassius’s smug stillness was acid in his veins. He stalked to the far corner, the damp straw crunching under his heavy tread. He lowered himself stiffly, ignoring the sting between his legs, the phantom ache of Cassius’s invasion. He wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Instead, he stared at the thick oak door, picturing the arena beyond. The sand. The roar. Cassius’s sword swinging. His own blade meeting it. Steel on steel. He’d make it sing. Make Cassius scream. He traced a calloused fingertip over the rough stone floor, imagining the drag of a blade through flesh. Slow. Deep. Until the arrogance bled out of those dark eyes.
Gallus shifted his weight, the scrape of his hobnailed boot unnaturally loud in the suffocating quiet. The silence from Cell Seven was worse than the grunts, worse than the wet slap of flesh. It pressed in, thick with violence deferred. He glanced down the torch-lit corridor. Empty. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned his spear against the wall. His hand, trembling slightly, drifted down. Past his belt. Past the linen. Fingers brushed the aching hardness trapped beneath. Shame scorched him, hotter than the memory of Cassius’s thrusts. He shouldn’t. But the image flooded back – Brutus pinned, taking it, begging for it. Gallus’s breath hitched. His fingers closed.
*****
Dawn bled grey and cold through the high, barred vents. Dust motes danced in the feeble light. Cassius rose first, stretching like a great cat, muscles rippling. He didn’t look at Brutus. Didn’t need to. He scooped handfuls of filthy straw, rubbing it briskly over his skin, scraping away the sweat and dried seed. Brutus watched, unmoving, from his corner. His own body felt heavy, leaden, but the fury was a cold, sharp stone in his gut.
Footsteps echoed down the hall – the clank of keys, the gruff voices of handlers. Feeding time. The prelude to slaughter. Cassius finally turned. His eyes locked onto Brutus’s. No words. Just a slow, brutal smile that promised ruin. Brutus bared his teeth in answer. The sand awaited.
The handlers flung the door wide, torchlight flooding the cell. Two hulking figures stood silhouetted against the corridor’s walls. Cassius strode forward first, his shoulders back, his head held high.
Brutus followed, his steps heavy. The handlers shoved them toward the troughs of cold gruel. Cassius ate fast, eyes scanning the other cells, ignoring Brutus entirely. Brutus forced the slop down, tasting grit, tasting Cassius’s seed still lingering at the back of his throat. He swallowed bile. Focus. Only the sand mattered now.
Handlers dragged them through the twisting corridors toward the Ludus baths. Steam rose thick, smelling of sulfur and wet stone. Cassius plunged into the communal pool first, water sloshing over the edge. He scrubbed himself with brutal efficiency, hands scraping over the muscles of his coiled body with deliberate, possessive strokes.
Brutus entered the opposite end, the hot water stinging the raw scrape on his thigh where he’d scrubbed too hard. He kept his eyes fixed on the swirling steam, refusing to acknowledge Cassius’s presence, refusing to see the faint smear of pink that bloomed briefly in the water between them.
Gallus watched from the archway, spear held rigidly vertical. His knuckles were bone-white. The handlers joked about the upcoming bout, placing bets with coarse laughter. Gallus didn’t join in. His gaze kept flicking to Brutus’s broad back, the powerful shoulders corded with tension beneath the water’s surface. He remembered the desperate arch, the choked moan. Heat prickled beneath his armor. He shifted his stance, the scrape of his greave loud on the wet tile.
Cassius rose from the bath first, water sluicing off his thick torso. He didn’t towel off. Instead, he strode dripping toward Brutus, who stood waist-deep, eyes fixed on the swirling steam. The handlers fell silent. Cassius stopped inches away, his shadow falling over Brutus.
"Still stink of me?" Cassius murmured, voice pitched low, rough as gravel. A droplet fell from his chin onto Brutus’s shoulder.
Brutus didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. His knuckles whitened beneath the water’s surface. "Only stink here is your breath," he growled. "Rotting meat and lies."
Cassius leaned closer, his heat radiating through the steam. "You begged for it," he breathed, voice thick with contempt. "Moaned my name. Remember?" His hand shot out, fingers digging into Brutus’s bicep, pulling him half-around. Water sloshed violently. "Remember how deep I filled you?"
Brutus wrenched free with a snarl, spraying water. "I remember your fear," he spat, eyes burning. "The tremor in your hand before you shoved in. Coward."
Cassius's smile vanished, replaced by a cold mask. He lunged, fingers clamping around Brutus's throat. Steam thickened as handlers shouted, rushing forward. Gallus leveled his spear, heart hammering.
Brutus didn't fight the grip. He stared into Cassius's eyes, voice a choked rasp. "Choke me here ... prove you fear the sand."
Cassius's fingers tightened, knuckles whitening. Steam curled around their locked bodies like specters. Brutus's pulse hammered against the crushing pressure, his face darkening, but his gaze remained defiant, burning through the haze.
The handlers grabbed Cassius's shoulders, hauling him back with grunts of effort. "Save it for the fucking arena!" one barked, wrenching Cassius's arm away.
Cassius released Brutus with a shove that sent him stumbling back into the water. He glared, chest heaving, water dripping from his clenched fists. "Sand won't save you," he snarled.
Brutus rubbed his throat, coughing, but his eyes never wavered. "We'll see."
Handlers shoved them apart, barking orders. Towels were flung at them. Cassius snatched his, drying with savage swipes, his glare fixed on Brutus across the steam-shrouded chamber. Brutus turned his back deliberately, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he rubbed the coarse linen over his skin. The raw scrape on his inner thigh burned anew. He pressed the towel hard against it, welcoming the sting. A reminder.
Gallus watched, spear trembling slightly in his grip. The handlers' coarse laughter returned, louder now, fueled by the near-violence. "Save that fire for the lions!" one guffawed, slapping Cassius's shoulder. Cassius didn't react, his gaze drilling into Brutus's back. Gallus saw the tremor in Cassius's clenched fist, the subtle tension in his jaw. Not fear. Fury barely contained.
The handlers marched them out, dripping, toward the armory corridor. The air grew colder, smelling of oiled leather and sharpened steel. Racks lined the walls – shields, greaves, helmets. Cassius moved with predatory familiarity toward the heavy Thracian armor: curved sica blade, small square shield. His choice screamed aggression. Brutus lingered near the heavier Gallic gear: the long, straight spatha sword, taller scutum shield. Defense first. Endurance.
Gallus stood rigid at the corridor’s end, spear tip resting on the flagstones. His eyes tracked Brutus as the gladiator tested the weight of the spatha, the flex of the blade. He remembered the raw scrape on Brutus’s thigh, the defiant set of his jaw in the bathhouse steam. The memory tightened Gallus’s gut. Cassius buckled his greaves with sharp, efficient snaps, his gaze flicking contemptuously toward Brutus’s slower preparations.
An armorer shoved a leather harness toward Brutus. Gallic shoulder guards, thick and layered. Brutus shrugged into it, the straps biting across his sweat-slicked chest.
Cassius snorted, hefting his lighter sica. Its curved edge gleamed wickedly in the torchlight. "Hide behind your wall of wood, coward," Cassius taunted, voice echoing off the stone. "It won't stop me finding your throat."
Brutus ignored him, tightening the harness buckle over his pectoral. The leather creaked. He focused on the weight of the scutum resting against his leg – solid, dependable. A barrier against chaos. He slid his hand through the grip, muscles remembering the stance. Defense wasn't cowardice. It was patience. Let Cassius burn himself out swinging at stone.
Cassius snatched his helmet – a simple Thracian visor leaving his mouth exposed – and slammed it onto his head. The metallic clang echoed. He stalked toward the tunnel mouth leading to the arena sands, where distant roars were swelling like thunder. He paused at the threshold, torchlight catching the cruel curve of his sica. Without turning, his voice sliced through the armory's clamor: "When you fall, know I put you there."
Brutus secured the last buckle on his shoulder guard, the leather biting deep. He lifted the heavy scutum, its familiar weight grounding him. "When you bleed," he countered, his voice low and steady, "know you begged for it first." He didn't watch Cassius vanish into the shadowed tunnel. His gaze fixed on the spatha lying across an oil-stained bench. The blade was cold, unforgiving steel. He wrapped his fingers around the grip. It felt like an extension of his fury.
Gallus watched Brutus test the sword’s balance, a slow, deliberate arc cutting through the smoky air. The scrape on Brutus’s thigh was hidden now beneath leather and bronze, but Gallus knew it was there. He remembered the frantic scrubbing in the cell, the raw defiance in the bathhouse. His own palm felt slick on the spear shaft. The handlers’ coarse jokes faded as the arena’s roar intensified, a hungry beast sensing imminent bloodshed.
Handlers shoved Brutus toward the tunnel. Torchlight flickered off his helmet’s cheek guards as he paused beside Gallus. For a heartbeat, their eyes met — Brutus’s gaze burned with cold fury, Gallus’s widened with trapped shame. No words. Only the thunder from beyond the arch and the metallic tang of fear-sweat. Brutus turned away, hefting his shield, and vanished into the shadows.
Gallus gripped his spear, knuckles bloodless. The roar swelled, drowning the handlers’ crude bets. He knew the ritual: the procession, the salute, the circling predators. His mind conjured Brutus stepping onto sun-scorched sand, squinting against the glare. Cassius would already be prowling, sica glinting, hungry for the first strike.
Inside the tunnel, the heat hit Brutus like a fist. Dust and sweat choked the air. Ahead, Cassius stood silhouetted against the blinding archway, a dark statue of coiled violence. The crowd’s roar was a physical thing, vibrating through the stones underfoot. Brutus tightened his grip on the scutum, the leather strap biting into his forearm. Patience. Let him charge.
Cassius turned, helmeted gaze sweeping over Brutus like a blade. His lips curled beneath the visor. A silent sneer. Then he stepped into the light.
The roar hit Brutus like a physical blow as he followed. Blinding sand stretched before him, encircled by a seething ocean of faces. Heat shimmered off the bleachers. Cassius stood twenty paces ahead, bathed in harsh sunlight, raising his sica to the mob. The crowd screamed his name. "Cassius! Cassius!" He drank it in, chest swelling, turning slowly to face Brutus. The sneer became a predator's grin.
Brutus planted his scutum deep in the sand, a wall of oak and bronze. He raised his spatha, the blade catching the sun. Silence rippled through the crowd, curious, expectant. Cassius stalked forward, light on his feet, curved blade weaving patterns in the air. "Hiding already?" His voice carried, amplified by the amphitheater's curve. Mocking laughter echoed.
Brutus didn't answer. He tracked Cassius's circling steps, the shifting sand beneath his enemy's hobnails. Cassius feinted left, a blur of motion. Brutus pivoted, shield angled, letting the sica screech harmlessly across the bronze rim. Sparks flew. The crowd gasped.
Cassius danced back, eyes narrowed behind his visor. "Slow," he taunted, circling again. "Slow and stupid." He lunged, not at the shield, but low — a vicious swipe at Brutus's lead leg. Brutus slammed the scutum down, burying its edge in the sand. Cassius's blade clanged against the lower bronze plating, jarring his arm. Brutus shoved forward, shield-first, forcing Cassius back in a spray of grit.
The crowd roared approval. Cassius recovered fast, feinting high before driving his shoulder into the scutum's center. The impact shuddered up Brutus's arm. He braced, legs burning, refusing to yield ground.
Cassius pressed close, his breath hot through the helmet's mouth slot. "Still feel me inside you?" he hissed, audible only to Brutus. "You're trembling."
Brutus shoved hard, the scutum's bronze boss cracking against Cassius's shoulder armor. The Thracian staggered back, sand spraying. The crowd screamed — a tidal wave of sound. Brutus didn't pursue. He held his ground, shield planted, spatha ready. Let Cassius exhaust himself. Every wasted lunge, every arrogant taunt, drained him drop by drop.
Cassius circled, sica weaving hypnotic patterns. "Pathetic," he spat, voice thick with contempt. "Hiding behind wood like a virgin behind her mother's skirts." He lunged again, a feint high followed by a vicious sweep low at Brutus's ankles. Brutus dropped the scutum's bottom edge, grinding it deep into the sand. Cassius's blade screamed off bronze, sparks stinging Brutus's exposed calf. The crowd gasped.
Brutus shoved forward, shield-first, forcing Cassius back. Sand sprayed. Cassius danced away, laughing, but Brutus saw the slight hitch in his step — the jarring impact on his shoulder. *Patience.*
Cassius circled wider, sica gleaming. The crowd's roar faded to a low thrum in Brutus's ears. Only the scrape of hobnails on grit mattered. Cassius feinted high, blade flashing toward Brutus's helmet. Brutus raised the scutum instinctively. Too late, he saw the trap — Cassius dropped low, sica slicing toward his exposed thigh. Brutus twisted, shield slamming down. Bronze met steel with a bone-jarring clang. The blade skittered off the rim, missing flesh by a finger's breadth. Sand stung Brutus's eyes.
Cassius sprang back, snarling. "Lucky," he spat, circling again. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto the thirsty sand. "But luck runs thin."
Brutus kept his shield planted, eyes narrowed against the glare. His thigh throbbed where Cassius's blade had grazed leather — too close to the raw scrape beneath. He tracked Cassius's restless pacing, the coiled tension in his shoulders. *He's tiring.* The Thracian style demanded relentless aggression, but every failed lunge bled stamina. The crowd sensed it too; their roars shifted, hungry for the kill.
Cassius lunged again, a furious overhead chop aimed at Brutus's helmet. Brutus raised the scutum, bracing for impact. At the last instant, Cassius twisted, sica whipping low instead — a brutal slash at Brutus's lead knee. Brutus pivoted hard, shield dropping. The curved blade screeched across greaved shin, sparks blinding. Momentum carried Cassius past, off-balance.
Brutus seized the opening. He drove forward, shield-boss first, ramming into Cassius's exposed back. Bone and bronze cracked. Cassius staggered, a grunt ripped from him. The crowd roared, a wall of sound.
Cassius stumbled forward, catching himself on one knee. Sand sprayed. He whirled, sica flashing upward in a desperate arc. Too slow. Brutus slammed the scutum’s edge down like an axe onto Cassius’s sword arm. Metal buckled. Cassius screamed, fingers spasming open. The sica thudded into the sand. The roar became a deafening frenzy.
Brutus didn’t hesitate. He drove the shield forward again, smashing Cassius full in the chest. The Thracian flew backward, crashing onto his back. Dust plumed. Before Cassius could scramble up, Brutus planted a hobnailed boot on his sternum, pinning him. The spatha’s point kissed the exposed throat beneath the helmet’s rim.
Silence fell — a sudden, suffocating vacuum. The crowd held its breath. Sand swirled in the arena’s heat shimmer. Cassius strained, muscles bulging, but Brutus’s weight held him like stone. Blood trickled from Cassius’s nose, staining the sand beneath his head crimson.
Brutus leaned down, spatha unwavering at Cassius’s throat. His voice sliced through the quiet, cold and low, meant only for Cassius. "Still feel *me*?"
Cassius’s chest heaved beneath the boot. Blood bubbled at his lips. Bitterness burned in his eyes. "Finish it ... coward," he choked out.
The crowd’s silence shattered into a frenzy. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" The chant pulsed against Brutus’s skull. Dust settled on Cassius’s sweat-streaked face. Brutus pressed the spatha’s tip deeper. A bead of crimson welled beneath Cassius’s jawline. The leather grip creaked in Brutus’s fist.
Cassius’s eyes burned with defiance. "Do it!" he rasped, blood-flecked spittle spraying. "Prove you’re more than my whore!"
The chant hammered Brutus’s skull — Kill! Kill! Kill! — but beneath the roar, he heard Gallus’s choked gasp from the cell, Cassius’s mocking breath in the bathhouse steam. His knuckles whitened on the spatha’s grip. This blade deserved more than quick mercy.
He lifted his boot from Cassius’s chest. The crowd gasped, confused. Cassius coughed, sucking air, eyes wide with disbelief. Before he could move, Brutus slammed his hobnailed heel onto Cassius’s sword hand. Bones crunched like dry twigs. Cassius screamed, arching off the sand. Brutus leaned close, his voice slicing through the noise. "You wanted proof." He drove his knee into Cassius’s gut, forcing the air from him in a ragged wheeze.
The crowd roared approval, bloodthirsty and wild. Brutus seized Cassius’s helmet strap, wrenching it free. The visor clattered away, revealing Cassius’s twisted face — bloodied, furious, stripped of arrogance. Brutus hauled him upright by the hair, dragging him across the sand toward the arena’s edge. Cassius stumbled, choking on dust and humiliation.
At the barrier wall, Brutus slammed Cassius face-first against the bloodstained stone. Spectators leaned over, spitting curses, their shadows falling like vultures. Brutus pressed Cassius’s broken hand against the rough surface, grinding shattered bones. Cassius’s scream tore through the amphitheater, raw and animal. Brutus leaned close, lips brushing Cassius’s ear. "Hear them?" he hissed. "They know whose whore you are now."
He spun Cassius around, pinning him spread-eagled against the barrier. With brutal efficiency, Brutus ripped away the Thracian’s leather loincloth. The crowd’s roar peaked — a mix of shock, delight, and primal hunger. Cassius bucked, snarling defiance, but Brutus drove a knee into his spine, immobilizing him. Sunlight glared off Cassius’s exposed flesh, sweat-slicked and trembling.
Brutus seized Cassius’s thick erection, forcing it painfully against the rough stone. Cassius gasped, humiliation warring with involuntary arousal. Brutus leaned in, voice a venomous whisper only Cassius could hear above the mob’s frenzy. "Begged for it? You’re begging now." He spat onto Cassius’s backside, the fluid glistening in the harsh light.
Cassius strained against the iron grip, tendons standing out like cables in his neck. "Rot in Hades!" he snarled, but his hips jerked forward against the stone, betraying him. The crowd’s derisive laughter crescendoed.
Brutus’s hand slid lower, calloused fingers digging into Cassius’s inner thigh. He found the raw scrape Gallus had witnessed — the same spot Cassius had torn open in the cell — and ground his thumb deep into the weeping wound. Cassius convulsed, a ragged cry tearing from his throat. Blood smeared the stone. Brutus leaned close, breath hot on Cassius’s ear. "This is where you marked me. Remember?" He twisted his thumb. "Now I mark you."
Cassius shuddered, sweat-drenched back arching against Brutus’s chest. The crowd’s frenzy blurred into white noise. Only Brutus’s voice cut through — cold, precise. "You wanted spectacle?" Brutus’s free hand gripped Cassius’s thick erection, forcing it harder against the abrasive barrier. "Give them spectacle."
He spat again, slicking the cleft between Cassius’s clenched buttocks. Cassius bucked violently, a trapped animal. "I’ll carve out your eyes!" he roared, but Brutus drove his knee higher, pinning Cassius’s spine. The movement ground Cassius’s groin against stone, wrenching a choked gasp from him. Humiliation burned hotter than the sun-scorched sand.
Brutus leaned in, his voice a blade honed for Cassius’s ear alone. "You claimed me? You *own* nothing." He thrust his hips forward, pressing his own hardened length against Cassius’s exposed backside. The crowd’s frenzy hit a fever pitch; coins rained down, clattering on the sand. Cassius froze, muscles locking in horrified understanding. Brutus’s hand clamped over Cassius’s mouth, stifling any cry. "Silence," he snarled. "Show them your pride."
With brutal force, Brutus drove himself inside. Cassius arched, a strangled gasp tearing through Brutus’s fingers. The barrier’s rough stone scraped Cassius’s chest raw. Every thrust hammered his broken hand against the wall, agony flaring up his arm. Brutus rode him relentlessly, each movement a violation witnessed by thousands. Sweat stung Cassius’s eyes; he tasted blood and dust. The mob’s roar was a physical weight, crushing his defiance into grit.
Brutus gripped Cassius’s hips, fingers digging into bruised flesh. He moved with savage rhythm, each inward thrust grinding Cassius’s erection against the unyielding stone. Pain and unwanted pleasure warred — Cassius’s body betrayed him, hips jerking involuntarily against the barrier. Brutus leaned close, breath hot. "Feel it?" he hissed. "Your arena." Cassius shuddered, bile rising in his throat. The scrape on his inner thigh burned anew, reopened by Brutus’s earlier torment. The crowd’s chants dissolved into wordless hunger.
Brutus drove deeper, relentless. Cassius’s broken hand throbbed with every impact against the wall. Sweat slicked their bodies, mingling with blood from Cassius’s scraped chest. Brutus’s thrusts grew shorter, sharper — a predator sensing the kill. Cassius clenched his teeth, fighting the rising tide within him. Brutus’s hand snaked around Cassius’s waist, calloused palm wrapping around Cassius’s thick shaft. He squeezed, twisting slightly. Cassius gasped, spine arching. "No ..." he choked, but Brutus tightened his grip.
Cassius’s hips jerked uncontrollably against the stone. The friction burned, a cruel counterpoint to Brutus’s invading rhythm. Brutus leaned in, lips grazing Cassius’s ear. "Beg," he commanded, voice thick with exertion. Cassius shook his head violently, sweat flying. Brutus slammed deeper, hitting a spot that made Cassius’s legs buckle. A strangled moan escaped Brutus’s palm.
Brutus’s hand tightened on Cassius’s shaft, pumping in rough sync with his thrusts. Cassius’s vision blurred — the bloodstained barrier, the screaming faces above, Brutus’s iron grip trapping him. Heat coiled low in his gut, undeniable and treacherous. He fought it, biting down on Brutus’s fingers until he tasted copper. Brutus only laughed, breath ragged. "Feel it building?" he hissed. "Your body knows its master."
Cassius bucked wildly, a trapped beast. Brutus’s rhythm became brutal, piston-like, driving Cassius forward against the stone with each inward surge. The rough barrier scraped Cassius’s chest raw; every thrust hammered his broken hand, sending fresh waves of agony up his arm. Yet, beneath the pain, beneath the crushing humiliation, a deeper pressure mounted. Brutus’s calloused thumb found the weeping scrape on Cassius’s inner thigh again, grinding into the inflamed flesh. Cassius gasped, hips jerking uncontrollably against the barrier. The friction on his trapped erection was torture and ecstasy fused into one unbearable sensation.
Brutus’s breath came in ragged bursts against Cassius’s neck. His grip tightened on Cassius’s shaft, pumping in rough counterpoint to his thrusts. "Feel it?" Brutus snarled, voice thick with exertion and triumph. "Feel how deep I own you?" He slammed home, burying himself to the hilt. Cassius shuddered violently, a choked sob escaping Brutus’s palm. The relentless friction against the stone, the brutal invasion, Brutus’s punishing hand – it was too much. The coil of heat in his gut tightened unbearably, a pressure demanding release. He fought it, teeth sinking deeper into Brutus’s fingers, tasting blood. His vision swam; the roaring crowd dissolved into a blur of noise and light.
Brutus felt Cassius’s body betraying him. The involuntary clench, the desperate arch of the spine, the choked vibrations against his palm. He drove harder, faster, hips pistoning. The scrape on Cassius’s thigh burned under his grinding thumb, slick with fresh blood. "Beg!" Brutus commanded again, his own control fraying. Cassius shook his head wildly, sweat and blood spraying. Brutus slammed into him once more, hitting that deep, vulnerable spot. Cassius convulsed, a muffled scream tearing through Brutus’s hand. His hips bucked wildly against the stone, the friction unbearable.
Brutus felt the telltale tightening deep within Cassius’s body, the involuntary spasms signaling surrender. He released Cassius’s mouth, gripping his hipbone instead, fingers biting into bruised flesh. Cassius gasped, sucking in dust-choked air. “No!” he rasped, but his hips jerked forward, grinding his trapped erection against the rough barrier.
Brutus’s rhythm became savage, brutal. He leaned forward, chest pressed against Cassius’s sweat-slicked back, lips against his ear. “Now,” Brutus snarled, voice ragged. “Show them.”
Cassius’s body arched violently. A raw, choked gasp tore from him as his hips slammed forward against the unyielding stone barrier. His thick erection pulsed against the rough surface, untouched save for the brutal friction. Thick ropes of semen sprayed from him, hitting the bloodstained stone with wet splatters, painting streaks of white over crimson. The crowd’s roar hit a deafening crescendo – a frenzy of delight and derision.
Brutus felt Cassius’s climax trigger his own. Deep within Cassius, Brutus’s thrusts turned erratic, uncontrolled. He buried himself to the hilt, grinding against Cassius’s spasming body as his own release surged. Hot seed pulsed into Cassius in thick, claiming spurts. Cassius shuddered violently beneath him, a low groan escaping his bloodied lips – a sound of utter defeat mingled with involuntary sensation. Brutus held him pinned, hips jerking, emptying himself completely, marking his victory deep inside his conquered enemy.
Cassius slumped against the barrier, trembling uncontrollably. Brutus’s seed spilled out of him, dripping down his inner thighs to mingle with the blood staining the sand beneath their feet. The crowd’s roar was deafening, a chaotic blend of approval, disgust, and raw, voyeuristic excitement. Coins continued to rain down, clattering around them like mocking applause. Cassius’s forehead rested against the rough stone, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. The humiliation was absolute, a crushing weight far heavier than Brutus’s body still draped over him. His own release, forced onto the barrier for all to see, felt like the final branding of his defeat.
Brutus slowly withdrew, the movement deliberate and unhurried. He stepped back, leaving Cassius exposed and trembling against the wall. The Gallic gladiator stood tall, chest heaving, sweat and Cassius’s blood streaking his torso. He raised his spatha towards the mob, not in salute, but as a grim testament. The blade was smeared crimson. The crowd roared his name now, a thunderous chant replacing Cassius’s. "Brutus! Brutus! Brutus!" The sound washed over Cassius, drowning him.
Cassius slid down the barrier, broken hand clutched to his chest. Sand clung to the drying streaks of blood and seed on his thighs. He couldn't lift his head. The jeers and laughter from the spectators above were knives twisting in his gut. A rotten apple core struck his shoulder, bursting into pulp. He flinched, the movement reopening the scrape on his inner thigh. Fresh blood welled, warm against his skin.
Brutus towered over him, spatha still raised to the chanting mob. His shadow fell across Cassius like a shroud. With deliberate slowness, Brutus lowered his blade. He didn't spare Cassius a glance as he turned toward the victor's gate. The handlers would drag Cassius out like offal once the crowd tired of him.
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