#gladiator!ghost

Another match. Another pair of desperate men spilling entrails for sport. The crowd cheered and wailed, throwing curses and coins with equal fervor. You followed them, eyes sharp.

And then he stepped onto the sand.

Your breath caught before you knew why.

He was massive. Larger than the others, towering, pale, brutal-looking even from this distance. A wall of muscle, imposing in scale, like a beast dragged from the wilderness and forced into iron. Made of marble, veined with violence. Scarred arms, a chest broad enough to block the sun, corded legs that moved with heavy grace. He wore only the essentials: a leather belt studded with iron, gladiator's sandals strapped to thick calves, and bracers that looked scavenged from dead men. Across his shoulders, a pitted iron pauldron marked with old, dried blood. No tunic. No armor to hide behind. Just skin and power.

And that helmet. Rough-forged, streaked with red, and painted in defiance with a crude white skull across the face. It turned his silence into menace, his gaze into death.

“The Ghost!” the crowd began to chant, at first a murmur, then a thunder. “Ghost! Ghost! Ghost!” They knew him. Even before he moved.

You leaned forward so suddenly your goblet nearly tipped. Your heart beat a little faster. You hadn't thought it could.

You gripped the carved edge of the balcony, every nerve in your body focused on the way he prowled forward. His opponent, a tall, sinewy man armed with a trident and net, circled like a jackal. But Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t taunt. He only watched. Waited. Measured.

You saw the shift in his stance a breath before the kill. The weight transfer. The flex of one massive thigh. And then—

It almost happened too fast for the eye to follow.

Ghost closed the space between them like a storm. The trident glanced off his bracer, sunk into the sand, and his short gladius tore through the man’s chest in a brutal upward slash. You saw the ribs part, the spray of blood, thick and red and glorious, painting Ghost’s bare skin.

The body dropped twitching at his feet.

The arena erupted.

“Brutal,” said the noblewoman beside you, adjusting her veil.

“Efficient,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the killer below.

She gave you a wary glance. “Don’t be foolish. The wild ones are the most dangerous. No matter how loud the crowd screams. Not even the respect to entertain his patron.”

“What is he?” you asked aloud, voice light, casual. A steward heard you and stepped closer.

“Briton, Domina. Taken in the northern campaigns. Refuses a name.”

“Then why do they call him Ghost?”

“Because he doesn’t make a sound when he kills.”

Your smile deepened.

He didn’t wipe his face. Instead, he took a moment to clean the blood from his blade with a slow, practiced motion. The gladius gleamed under the sun. But it was his hands that caught your attention, broad and scarred, thick-fingered and strong. The kind of hands that had broken men. The kind of hands that could ruin.

Your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.

“I want him,” you said.

The older woman beside you sputtered. “You’ve never requested one before.”

You drained your goblet and held it to the side to be refiled.

“Have him sent to me tomorrow.”

The woman’s expression darkened. “They’re not men, not anymore. They remember the feel of killing even in chains.”

You laughed, light and unbothered. “Then I’ll see what such a thing looks like up close.”

The words left your mouth with a thrill you couldn’t contain. It shimmered beneath your skin, a feverish anticipation that curled low and hot in your stomach. You imagined the sound of shackles clinking, the weight of him in the dark, the heat that would rise from him.

Bellow you, the crowd chanted his name like a prayer made of blood.

— ❖ —

They woke him before dawn.

Not with words, never with words, but with the sharp slap of a wet cloth and the scrape of chains being dragged over the stone. Around him, the cells stirred. Other gladiators grunted and groaned, muttered curses in half a dozen tongues. They should’ve been left to sleep, lick their wounds, and be carted away latter in the afternoon. The games had ended yesterday.

He sat up slowly, back peeling from the damp stone, and looked down the row. Guards moved with purpose, not gathering all of them, just a few. Only a few.

He recognized their faces. Not the strongest. Not the bloodletters or the brawlers. These were the pretty ones. Fine-boned. Glossy-haired. The ones who’d been sent to noble villas and senators' feasts. He’d heard them brag about it. Displayed like statues. Made to pour wine, feed fruit, stage pretend-fights when ordered. Flesh, dressed up and passed around like dessert.

He swung his feet to the floor.

Shackles scraped over stone.

A pair of guards appeared at his gate.

“You. Up.”

He rose without a word. He didn’t need to speak. His silence unsettled them more than any threat.

He stood out among them like a wolf among dogs. Their skin was golden and sun-kissed, lean muscles elegant like dancers or courtesans. Most had dark, gleaming hair, oiled and neatly bound. One of them bore intricate blue geometric designs inked into his skin, clean, artful lines that whispered of ritual and heritage. Nothing like Ghost's crude tattoos, symbols he barely remembered being carved, black scars of a world lost.

They led him and the others down the narrow corridor, toward the baths hidden beneath the arena.

Steam hit him first. Then oil. Then the scent of citrus and herbs meant to disguise what this truly was.

Not preparation for battle.

Preparation for something else entirely.

The room was warm and echoing, arched in pale stone, flickering torchlight dancing over wet tile. Pools steamed gently. Attendants moved silently, practiced and precise, like part of the architecture itself. There were no orders. Only hands.

Hands on his shoulders, brushing away grime and dried blood. Hands pouring water down his back in warm streams. Fingers in his hair. Cloth sliding along scars and scabs. Ghost’s jaw locked and resisted the urge to flinch.

Water rolled in rivulets down his chest and stomach, trailing through the deep cuts of muscle like rain over carved stone. The filth of the arena slipped from him in shades of brown and red.

He had never been bathed by another before. Every nerve was alert. He watched each movement with suspicion, half a breath from violence.

He was ready to shove someone, bare teeth, snarl like a beast cornered—

But a presence leaned in beside him.

The blue-marked gladiator. And a damp cloth was dropped in his hand.

“Don’t worry,” the man said, voice low and teasing. “We’re as surprised as ya’re.”

He dismissed the slaves with a charming smile and the confidence of someone who’s done this numerous times before. “Make sure ya’re thorough with that. Ya don't want to be displeasing.”

Ghost said nothing. His hands flexed under the water, rewetting the cloth.

“Been a while since they sent up someone like ya,” the blue-marked man continued, eyeing Ghost with an amused sort of detachment. “She must have asked for ya by name. Or… by myth. Either way, someone upstairs is curious. Ya’ll be her little mystery for a night.”

Ghost glanced at him from beneath wet lashes, expression hidden but sharp. “How many of these baths have you had, then?”

The other man grinned. “More than I can count. Why?”

“Sounds like you know their ways too well.”

The man laughed, loud and easy. “Ya mock, but it’s kept me alive.”

Ghost didn’t smile, but something shifted in his posture. Not relaxed, never that, but less coiled.

“Don’t go around biting hands. And do address her as Domina at all times.” The man patted him on the back and left him be.

He expected the worst. An aging senator’s bored wife. A fragile Roman crone with nothing but coin and command. Another weakling behind perfume and veils.

He considered scaring her. Maybe hurting her. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do anything, they’d be scared of him on sight.

They always were.

— ❖ —

Your chambers were in chaos.

Silks lay draped over couches, perfumes clouded the air, and half a dozen attendants moved around you like petals in a storm. Bracelets clinked on wrists. Pins glinted in the light. Someone whispered about scent layering. Another fretted about your hair. Your skin was still pink and warm after returning from the bath, tender and smooth, prickling with a strange, electric awareness.

You had chosen a robe the color of old blood, soft as breath, split high at the thighs, plunging deep to your belly. Not subtle. Not demure. You didn’t want to be. Gold chains draped down the slope of your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, and wrapped around the flare of your waist making you feel intoxicatingly feminal. There was pleasure in the ritual of it, in the dressing, in the transformation, but this wasn’t only for you.

You wanted him to see.

It shouldn’t matter. He was a slave. A fighter. A beast in a gilded cage. And yet the thought of his eyes dragging over your body, heavy and assessing, and thinking woman and it thrilled you.

A velvet-lined box waited on a low table beside your chaise, the lid already cracked open. Inside, the gold skull mask gleamed, its hollow eyes catching in the lamplight. Your gift. Your claim. You had commissioned it in a rush after seeing the one he wore in the arena. This would be finer. This would be yours. A version of him remade for you.

He would wear it tonight.

You would wear one too, as you were advised to do, more delicate, shaped to the face of a goddess, your eyes lined in kohl behind it. A matched set.

They said he would be ugly. Scarred. Twisted from battle and bone-healing wrong. Better to see him adorned, they told you. Better not to look too closely at what war leaves behind. But you didn’t want distance.

A flicker of nerves rose, uninvited. You smothered it.

You ran your fingers over the edge of the mask, then stood. The robe whispered against your skin, and the perfume rose with your movement—amber, myrrh, and something sharper beneath. You caught your own reflection in the bronze mirror and studied it like a stranger might. Flushed. Bright-eyed. A little too eager.

Let them talk.

Let them warn you.

You weren’t afraid of wild things. There was something wild within yourself. — ❖ — The cart rattled over the stone road, wheels creaking with every bump, the last light of the sun dragging long shadows over the hills. It painted the world in hues of burnt orange and deep violet. The others talked quietly, stretched out or lounging, used to the journey. Ghost sat at the back, shackled, alone.

He was the only one wearing chains.

The iron cuffs were tight, his wrists resting on his knees as he watched the other gladiators from beneath his brow. They looked like bronzed statues in the golden hour, slim, beautiful, elegant in their poise. Hair dark and curled, bodies lean, skin clean. Some had jewelry on. One of them even smelled faintly of rose oil. The painted one caught Ghost watching and gave him a wink.

It was all wrong. Ghost was muscle and scars, rough edges and old wounds. He didn’t belong among them. He wasn’t made to be looked at. He was made to end things.

The cart slowed.

The stop was a sprawling villa on the edge of the city, lit with torchlight and alive with sound. Laughter spilled into the night air, along with the thrum of lyres and the clatter of plates. The courtyard swarmed with activity, carts and horses, guards and servants. The smell of spiced meat and roasting figs thickened the air. Smoke coiled up into the twilight sky.

A man called out, and the cart came to a full stop.

“You. Out.”

The other gladiators began to move, stretching like cats after a nap, adjusting their robes or tugging at the clasps of their sandals. One by one they dropped to the ground and were greeted by handlers and attendants. But when Ghost stepped forward to follow, a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Not you,” came the voice.

He stiffened.

The others glanced back at him as they were led away, laughing, striding into the fray. The painted one turned with a smile and blew him a kiss before disappearing through the grand gates.

Ghost sat back down. The cart creaked into motion once more.

Their second stop was different.

Smaller. Quieter.

The villa was set apart from the others, further up a hill, where the air cooled after the sun was gone. Light flickered through some of the archways, lamplight, soft and golden, but most of the house lay dark. A few guards loitered near the entrance, not enough to be a threat. Not enough to stop him, if he wanted out. No music. No voices. Just the distant rustling of wind in the vines.

He was led through the open courtyard, feet crunching softly against the gravel. The smell of lilac was everywhere. It pressed into his senses, cloying, thick, sweet. Flowering vines trailed along the walls, blooming in the twilight.

It was quiet.

Unsettlingly so.

The eerie buzz of insects filled the air.

They walked past shadowed rooms and empty benches, deeper into the secluded wing. He could feel the pulse of it now. This was private.

Before the door, the guards stopped. One stepped forward to check his chains, tightening a link, adjusting the clasp. Ghost bared his teeth but didn’t resist.

Then came the box.

It was velvet-lined, simple. The guard opened it without ceremony, revealing a golden skull mask. Finer than he’d ever seen. Too fine. He knew what this was.

“Put it on,” the man ordered.

Ghost stared at the thing. Hollow eyes. His likeness, remade in gold.

He nearly laughed. A bitter, hollow sound that didn’t quite make it past his throat.

He thought about refusing. About knocking the box out of the man’s hand, shattering it against the stone. About tearing through the house and finding her and demanding to know what she thought this was. He wasn’t a bauble. He wasn’t a toy for some noble’s lonely night.

He was a weapon.

He was a fighter.

But in the end, he reached out and took the mask.

The metal was cool against his skin. It settled into place and tied behind his head, fitting too well.

He straightened, exhaled, and stepped through the door.

— ❖ —

It was not you bedchamber.

This room was quieter. Secluded. Set apart from the rest of the villa, tucked behind thick stone walls and veiled archways. The floor was cool marble, veined with deep, smoky gray. Incense curled from a brazier in the corner, heady and sweet, clinging to the air like a secret. Velvet drapes hung heavy, muffling sound, swallowing the last of the light. A fire crackled in the hearth. Nearby, a low fountain gurgled gently, feeding a small soaking pool.

You were already there, stretched languidly along a carved wooden sofa covered in pillows, half reclining, gold mask resting on your face. A goblet of wine dangled from your fingers, nearly empty. The carafe beside it was half gone. A bowl of fruit, cheese, and honeyed nuts sat ignored. A bell rested within reach.

You waited.

Your mouth was dry. Your pulse fluttered like a bird’s. There was already a throb between your legs, low and urgent. The anticipation had grown unbearable. You had imagined this, fantasized, but nothing had prepared you for the reality.

The curtain parted.

He stepped inside.

Bound. Masked. Draped in white.

Chains gleamed at his ankles, at his wrists, a thick collar around his neck. The metal clinked softly as he entered. Behind him, a guard lingered long enough to loop the end of his chain around a carved column and secure it. The man gave a shallow bow and departed in silence. You weren’t alone, not really. You knew there were ears behind the wall, men with blades waiting just out of sight. But the illusion of privacy was heady.

He stood, still and silent.

You devoured him with your eyes.

This close, you could finally see what the arena kept distant. You had expected something brutish. Still filthy. Not this. He was tall. Towering. Breathtakingly imposing. This close, he was overwhelming. Broad shoulders, roped with muscle. Skin pale like ivory, a map of old battles: long-healed scars, silvered and ridged, proof of a thousand survived wounds, others still scabbed and angry. His chest rose and fell slowly, revealing the hard cut of his torso, bare but for the linen wrapped loosely around his waist. His arms were thick with muscle, corded and taut, veins visible like in the marble beneath your feet, crude lines of black ink wrapping around them, marks of another life. His thighs, partially revealed beneath the loose folds of linen, were thick and solid, shaped by years of brutality. He looked like he could crush a man’s skull between them.

The mask was exquisite on him. Your mask. The gold caught the light, burnished and regal. And above it: his hair. You hadn’t expected the color. Pale. Almost flaxen. Cropped short, close to the skull, like fur. Rare. Unusual. It gleamed like gold in the firelight.

His eyes were unreadable through the mask, but you felt them on you. Heavy. Assessing. Not cowed. Not grateful.

"Do you know why you're here?” you asked, your voice too soft, too breathless.

He tilted his head slightly. "You paid for me…” he held onto a breath like it didn’t want to leave his chest. “Domina.”

A note of disapproval slipped from your throat behind the mask.

"I requested you," you corrected. "That’s different."

He said nothing.

The silence stretched. The fire cracked.

You leaned forward, wine-warmed, full of nerve. Your voice a purr.

“Approach.”

He finally took a step, just before a reproach was on your lips. He moved with the caution of a predator, one aware of his strength, forced into stillness by circumstance, not submission. The chain pulled taut just a few feet from you. Close enough to drink in every detail. Far enough to have to raise to touch him. Far enough to be out of his grasp.

“They say your kind fights like wolves,” you murmured, your fingers brushing the rim of your goblet like you might trace the line of his mouth.

He didn’t flinch. “Wolves bite.”

A pause.

“Do they obey?”

Something sparked behind the gold. A glint like the edge of a blade.

“Only when they choose to.”

He watched you.

And you were nothing like he expected.

He’d imagined some perfumed matron, half-swaddled in years and power, leaning on the crutch of servants and ceremony. Someone soft in the way cruelty sometimes was—lazy, dulled by privilege, distracted.

But not you.

You were sharp. Vibrant. Young, yes, but in the way of a blade just pulled from the forge. That was the first surprise. You were younger than any Domina who looked down at him from the tall balcony of the arena, distain in their eyes. Your beauty was wild, not ornamental. Not in the way Roman matrons were supposed to be. Not tame. Not painted and powdered into a doll. Your hair was pinned but coming loose. Your silk clung where it pleased, chain glinting where flesh dipped and curved, not to bind, but to adorn, made of delicate gold, a mockery of his own iron. Every inch of you deliberately offered and utterly in control. You weren’t made of shadows and incense like this room, you were heat. Fire wrapped in gold. Hungry. Ready to consume. To immolate.

There was no mistaking it, not in the way you lounged on the couch, not in the way your eyes dragged over him like possession. You had the look of someone drunk on their own power, and no intention of sobering.

You were everything he had not prepared for.

And it made something in him stir.

He was a fighter. A weapon. A beast kept for the roar of the crowd.

But in that moment, he remembered he was also a man.

His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the delicate chain around your throat. How easily he could wrap his own chain there. How quickly he could make you gasp, not with fear, but something deeper. Rougher.

He flexed his hands, as if to remind himself of their purpose.

You saw it immediately.

The shift.

Your eyes dropped to his hands the moment he moved them, the way one might follow the flick of a blade in the dark. You couldn't help it.

Gods, those hands.

Scarred. Calloused. Thick-fingered and brutal. They looked like they were made for strangling. For gripping a sword until the hilt cracked. For pounding flesh into blood and dust. There were nicks across the knuckles, a deep old cut at the base of his thumb. You wanted to see those hands wrapped around something living. You wanted to see them drip red in the arena. You wanted to feel them inside you. Or wrapped around something throbbing.

Your thighs tensed. Heat pooled, molten.

He saw.

You didn’t speak. Instead, you reached for your wine, shifted your goblet in your hand like it was a weapon. Carefully, languidly, you drew your mask just enough to the side to reveal your lips. Glossy and red. You took a slow sip, savoring it, letting it slide down your throat while his gaze followed every motion. Tongue darting out to catch a drop before it spilled.

You didn’t ask him to refill your cup.

He noticed that, too.

The air between you thickened, took on weight. Your gaze flicked downward, and heat rushed straight to your core.

The linen wrap at his hips was beginning to betray him.

It shifted with the slow, tense rise of his breath. The outline visible now, growing. The shape of him. His cock swelling beneath the thin fabric, undeniable. It should have felt obscene. It didn’t. It felt right.

Your mouth went dry again. Your thighs pressed together without thinking. Your fingers tightened on the stem of your goblet.

You wanted to see all of him.

He didn’t flinch or look away. He stood exactly where you placed him, almost within reach. The chain taut. His chin lifted slightly, as if to ask: Now what, Domina?

The fire cracked behind you. The fountain bubbled on. But the only sound that mattered was his breathing, and your own.

You tilted your chin, voice low but clear.

“Undress.”

A beat of silence. Then, he moved.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. But measured. Like he was listening to your pulse, to your breath.

He lifted one arm, unwrapping the white linen from his waist. Each motion revealed more of him, inch by devastating inch. Muscle shifted beneath scarred skin. The lines of his abdomen, hard and clean as carved stone, flexed as he worked the knot free. The wrap loosened, slid down over his hips. Fell.

Your breath caught.

Fuck.

You had imagined it, but imagination failed. He was thick. Heavy. Already half hard, and rising. His cock was full, flushed and veined, a perfect match to the rest of him, massive, brutal, beautiful.

You couldn’t look away. Heat rushed through you, settling between your legs like flame. You ground your hips against the velvet cushion beneath you.

He watched you. And you realized, he was studying you now. Measuring your reactions. The way your chest rose too fast. The way your fingers clenched in the silk that draped over your thigh.

Still, you held his gaze.

Still, you kept your voice steady.

“Show me.”

His cock twitched.

“Touch yourself.”

He didn’t ask you to repeat it.

One scarred hand closed around the base of him, thick fingers curling over hot skin. He stroked once, slow, and your breath hitched.

Your whole body pulsed with want.

You’d never seen this. Not in life. Not like this. Not a man laid bare and made to perform at your whim. It was so crude.

He kept his eyes on you, every movement slow, controlled. His muscles flexed. His jaw tensed behind the mask. The gold gleamed in the firelight. You could hear the sound of him now, his hand working over the head.

Your hips shifted again. Your breath came faster. The urge to close the space between you, to taste him, to take; it burned through your spine.

But you didn’t move.

You stayed stretched across the sofa, trembling with power and hunger.

He was obeying. Because you commanded it. Because you wanted to see what a man looked like when stripped of armor and ego.

And he was showing you.

His hand moved again, slower now, crueler. He was teasing you as much as himself. You watched a bead of wetness glisten at the tip before his thumb smeared it over the head with a practiced motion.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

And then — his voice.

Rough. Quiet. Like gravel.

“Is this what you wanted, Domina?”

The title was heavy on his tongue. Not mocking. Not submissive. Something in between.

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, you leaned back further, one leg folding up, towards you, spreading your thighs. The silk of your robe slipped between them, brushing your core. You set your goblet on the table without refilling it. Then, slowly, deliberately, pulled your mask aside, not fully, just enough to let him glimpse the shape of your mouth again. Your lips parted, red from the wine, and you raised two fingers to drag them across your tongue. Wet. Obscene.

His cock jerked in his hand.

You smiled, letting the mask fall back in place.

Then, your hand slipped beneath your robe.

He grunted, barely audible. His chest rose faster.

You didn’t reveal anything. You didn’t need to. The shape of you, your posture, the lazy confidence of your wrist, everything spoke of what you were doing. The silk shifted, clinging to the inside of your thighs. You touched yourself with the same slow intent you used to command him. An indulgence. And a weapon. You watched him while you did it.

His hand moved harder now, forearm thick and flexing. Veins stood out across the muscle, straining. The chain at his wrist clinked with each stroke, metal brushing metal, harsh and rhythmic. A reminder of his restraint. A cruel, perfect sound.

He was close. You could feel it in the way he gritted his teeth. In the tightness of his jaw. The heat rolling off of him, the twitch of his cock. The tension built in him like a bowstring pulled too tight.

He hadn’t thought himself so desperate. But now, with you spread out before him, flushed and golden and unashamed, touching yourself while he stood chained and hard and exposed, he was unraveling.

He wanted.

He wanted like a man starved.

Like a man who hadn’t been a man in far too long.

The sounds he was making were low, more breath than voice, drawn from somewhere deep in his chest.

The silent Ghost, no more.

You watched, entranced. Mesmerized. The sight of him stroking himself for you, because you ordered it, was like a spell.

You let him linger there.

Right at the edge.

Trembling.

His muscles were tight with restraint, every breath drawn through gritted teeth, every movement soaked in heat. The sound of the chain at his wrist had become part of the rhythm now, soft and metallic, whispering yes, yes, yes with every stroke.

Those sounds were yours. Dragged from him. Claimed.

He looked like something sacred and ruined, flushed from neck to navel, cock straining in his fist, eyes locked to your parted thighs, where your fingers moved slow and cruel, still hidden beneath silk. Not enough to give him anything. Just enough to drive him mad.

You could see it happening, his body betraying him. His spine arching, that ragged desperation sharpening at the edges.

You leaned forward slightly.

“Don’t,” you ordered.

His whole body jerked at the word. His hand froze mid-stroke, gripping so tightly the head of his cock looked angry and red. He inhaled sharply through his nose, muscles twitching with restraint. The need in him was visible, raw, throbbing. You saw his throat bob. His jaw clenched.

He was shaking, right on the edge. You had brought him there. And you held him there.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you said.

The words settled over the room like smoke.

His breathing was ragged now. His cock, swollen and wet, twitched helplessly in his grip.

“Understood?” you added, voice low, dangerous.

He nodded once.

And then, hoarsely:

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes. Domina.”

You smiled, wine-slow and wicked. “Again.”

“Yes, Domina,” he growled, voice rasping over the edge of restraint.

His fist started moving again, from the base of his cock all the way to the head, his grip harsh and fast. Droplets of sweat shimmered on his skin like jewels, dripping down the valleys of his muscles.

You didn’t touch him. You didn’t need to.

You leaned back once more and let your fingers return to that aching throb between your thighs, hidden still beneath silk, wet with want. But it was for you now. For your pleasure. Not his.

He watched.

He couldn’t not.

His jaw was locked. His breathing harsh.

And you wanted to see what else his mouth might say.

“What else have you done with those hands?” you asked, casual as a knife slipped under ribs. “Have you choked a man to death?”

A twitch in his forearm. “Yes, Domina.”

“Have you done it to a woman?” you asked, voice a lazy purr. “While fucking her?”

His eyes flashed wild. “…Yes, Domina.”

You hummed, delighted. The scent of incense and sex made the air thick and suffocating. Your fingers moved harder now, more deliberate, stroking heat into yourself while he watched, crazed and yearning.

“Would you drop to your knees for me?” you whispered. “Would you put your face between my thighs and forget the air in your lungs?”

He swallowed hard. His breath caught. His knees buckled on command, the whole mass of him came down. It didn’t bring him beneath you. No. You were now face to face.

“Yes,” he said again, mouth agape, the collar on his neck biting into the skin as he leaned forward. “Yes, Domina.”

You bit your lip and squeezed your thighs together, barely suppressing a moan. He looked ready to break apart again, veins bulging, cock flushed red and glistening, leaking steadily down his knuckles. His whole body ached with the need to be used.

You circled your clit with cruel, precise pressure. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. You were too close. You both were.

And still—

“Don’t you dare,” you said, trembling yourself now. “You wait.”

He groaned, half agony, half worship, and obeyed. But just barely. His hand trembled. His balls were drawn tight. His whole body cried for release.

You saw it all and didn’t let up.

“Have you ever fucked someone you hated?”

A pause. He barely nodded.

“Did she cry?”

Another pause. A twitch. His mouth opened, but nothing came.

“How many men have you killed with your bare hands?”

“Too many to count.” That made something flicker in his eyes. “Domina.”

You leaned forward like it was a kiss.

“Did you enjoy it? Do you get hard when you fight?”

A ragged sound came from his throat.

The silk of your robe rustled as you rocked your hips slightly, fingers slow and warm, just enough for your breath to catch.

He watched like a starving animal.

“Domina.”

It wasn’t an answer. It didn’t matter. It told you what you wanted to know.

His body convulsed, his hand clenched too tight, the head of his cock flushed and weeping. You saw the exact moment he started to lose the edge.

“You’re going to spill without permission,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Aren’t you?”

His groan was wordless, wounded. His head bowed like he might break apart.

He was shaking violently now, his cock dark and dripping in his grip, whole body locked in the act of restraint. Every breath was a gasp, every muscle drawn taut. The chain at his wrist trembled with his every movement, the sound of it, metal on stone, metal on itself, rhythmic and maddening.

“Still holding?” you asked softly, almost sweet.

His throat worked to answer, but all that came was a hoarse sound, barely human. He nodded once, shaky, his eyes wild behind the mask.

You let him hover there, let him burn for a moment longer.

And that was when you pushed past the edge of restraint.

“Would you kill for me?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

You saw the exact moment it hit him, when it tore through him like fire, his body locking up, his mouth falling open. He made a sound like a wounded animal, somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and came violently, spilling over his hand and stomach, his hips jerking once, twice, helplessly, the sound of the chain lost beneath his ragged groans.

The moment he broke, so did you. Your entire body clenched. Muscles taut. Your thighs shook as you bit down on your tongue to keep quiet, to stay in control, but it barely held. You didn’t cry out, didn’t moan, but your breath caught sharp and trembling, and your fingers pressed so hard between your legs it was almost painful.

He watched you. Head dropped forward, chest rising and falling in ragged shudders, the gold mask gleaming with sweat and firelight.

Even through it, through the haze and the wreckage of his own release, he saw.

Saw the heat flood your eyes. Saw the way your body trembled with the force of your orgasm.

He knew.

And something in him hunger for it.

He was panting, drained, ruined. But his eyes stayed locked on you, heavy and starving. Still kneeling. Still bound. But aware now, you had undone him, but he had taken hold of something in you, too.

You swallowed, chest rising and falling. Held his gaze.

Then, slowly, deliberately, you pulled your hand out from beneath your robe. Your fingers shimmered with your slick, the firelight catching every glistening strand. You didn’t hide it. Didn’t rush. You let him see.

His eyes followed the motion like an animal.

You're both very skilled gladiators, once of the most recognized gladiators in the city. So much so that the Colosseum is packed with regular citizens eager to see which one of you will be the victor.

Even the emperor came to the match.

As you step into the arena, you don't flinch at the sight of Ghost, not even when you see him wearing his signature skull mask. You simply grip your sword tight and make sure your shield is adequately covering your body as you move to the center, instinctively moving into a defensive stance.

You watch with wary eyes as Ghost makes the first move, you being quick enough on your feet to be able to dodge his strike. Quickly, as to surprise him, you strike back.

Unfortunately, he parries your strike, your swords clashing together. He takes the opportunity to push your sword away and moves to drive his own into the opening that he sees.

You quickly move your shield to cover the opening and intercept his strike, the crowd going wild with the show you're putting on for them. Already, the summer's heat is making you sweat.

The fight continues with both of you dodging and striking, blood dripping down onto the sand beneath your feet as both of you draw blood with your swords. Despite the blood, all of the wounds are superficial cuts, nothing that would be fatal since this fight isn't to the death.

Surprisingly you gain a second wind when it seems like you're about to lose the fight to Ghost and you quickly press forward, taking him off guard. Your blows come in quick succession, quicker than Ghost can comprehend.

Ghost ends up falling down on his ass, his elbows just barely keeping him propped up. He sees you gaining on him, feels all of the blood and he has lost during this fight, and he reluctantly yields. He slams his fist on the sand, letting go of his sword.

You lower your sword, having been in the process of raising it, your chest heaving as you take in the booming sound of the crowd cheering. You sheathe your sword in its scabbard, walking forward with your hand outstretched to help Ghost up.

He surprisingly takes your hand, letting you help him get up off the sandy floor. As he stands, he watches the referee come out of his hiding spot from behind a column, the referee walking over to you to lift your hand in the air and declare you the winner.

You look back at Ghost just as he gets taken by his trainer to go back to his training facility to be seen by a doctor. You catch his eye and nod as a way of saying goodbye, able to resist smiling when he nods back.

You stand there, relishing in the crowd's cheers until your own trainer comes to take you to your training facility. You leave the crowd behind, the noise of the crowd getting softer as you walked through the Colosseum.

You hope you get another chance to fight Ghost again, or maybe just to see him.

The guard stopped at the threshold of the familiar chamber.

He hesitated. Not from fear, here was no fear left in him. Just want. Want like rot in the gut, thick and spreading, festering more with every day you left him.

The heavy curtain in front of him stayed unmoving in the breeze. Just fabric. Just a room. And yet every breath beyond it was yours. Your scent. Your shape. Your power. Ghost could already feel it wrapping around his ribs like a chain pulled too tight. Since you’d summoned him last, something had broken open in him. Split like flesh under a blade. A hollow that no food, no blood, no fight could fill. Made him cruel in training, vicious in sparring. Your voice had haunted him. Your eyes. The way you watched him, unflinching, almost amused by the things that made others look away.

He hadn’t slept properly in days. Couldn’t.

That first time had ruined his peace.

He thought he’d been hardened by the years. That the ache of being wanted had been bled dry in the dust of defeat and the sands of the arena, along with everything else that made him a man. But you — you had looked at him like he was still something alive.

And worse, you had touched something alive in him.

He’d tried to quiet it. Tried to fuck it out of himself in the dark, fists tight around his cock, thinking of your wine-slick mouth, your fingers wrapped around the stem of your cup like you’d wrap them around him. But nothing scratched the itch. The pleasure he could wring from himself, once enough to take the edge off, to quiet the snarl under his skin, was nothing now.

A pale thing. A shadow. He could stroke himself raw thinking of you, and still the satisfaction never came. Not really. The release meant nothing. It was you he wanted. Your hands. Your mouth. Your breath against his throat.

You hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t fucked him. Hadn’t even taken your clothes off.

You’d spoiled him.

The hand he'd used every night since he was old enough to have want in his blood had become worthless. You’d broken that too, without even trying.

The summons came just as the torches had dimmed in the barracks. No morning announcement. No scroll or slave to explain. Just the sharp voice of a guard barking his name, the clatter of keys, and the press of his collar against his throat and shackles around his limbs as they hauled him out again. No other gladiators summoned. No event to parade for.

It was too late for anything formal. Too sudden for politics.

Which meant it was you.

And despite the bite of exhaustion in his legs and the bruises under his skin, he was alert. Alive in a way he hadn’t been all day. Blood warm and thick, every muscle strung tight.

He could’ve been halfway dead and still, at the thought of you, his spine straightened. His chest filled. That was enough to stoke something low and greedy in him. He didn’t try to name it. Just held onto it, let it burn steady and clean under his ribs.

Ghost had no more patience left to give. Not for guards. Not for time. And least of all, for the distance between you.

The curtain finally stirred. Not from the breeze, but from his hand. The velvet slipped through his fingers, a simple motion that unraveled everything to come.

The room was darker than he remembered, the flicker of the lone fire casting restless shadows that danced on the marble floor. You sat there, half-reclined, the silk loose and careless around your body, nearly falling from one shoulder, hair only half-pinned, strands falling wild across your neck. No sandals. No jewels. The gold mask was the only thing still perfectly in place, an unyielding barrier between the wildness beneath and the world outside.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his as soon as he stepped inside. No hesitation, no pretense. Just that raw, piercing look, the one that made his breath catch, made every muscle in his body coil tighter.

You set the wine cup down with a soft clink, the only sound aside from the faint clatter of chains as the guard secured his leash to a column before slipping away.

There’s no food on the table. Only the bell. And a full carafe of wine.

He didn’t linger near the threshold this time. Without waiting, he walked forward, the chains pulling taut but unheeded. His steps echoed softly on the marble as he closed the distance, chest rising and falling.

His voice broke the silence, sharp, assured.

“Domina.”

“You took your time,” you chastised, voice quieter than before, heat simmering just beneath.

He held your gaze behind the mask. “Wasn’t me who delayed. If it were up to me, I’d have come straight from the barracks.”

“You… would have come.”

The tilt of your head was almost inquisitive in its consideration, like he just revealed to you a secret as sweet as nectar.

Something in your demeanor shifted. Your shoulders pulled back, spine straightened, bare feet touched the cool marble. He saw the tension ripple through you like a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“You were waiting,” you said, head tilted, voice edged with something sharper than amusement. “Weren’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the chain rattle softly as he stepped closer, as far as it would allow, until the pull at his collar stopped him. His eyes never left you. Neither did yours.

He should have lied. Or said something clever. That was what they told him to do — be good, be respectful, keep his head bowed, always call you by your title.

Looking at you now, he knew that was a lot of rubbish.

If that’s what you wanted, you’d have been at the banquet. Draped in gold, laughing behind your hand, whispering about men like him from a safe distance. You’d have chosen perfume and poetry and turned your nose from far above.

But you were here.

And he wasn’t like that either. Not gentle. Not polished. Not meant to be dressed up and paraded. He didn’t know how to flatter or play coy. His hands weren’t made for serving.

“I wasn’t counting minutes,” he said finally, voice low and even. “But I didn’t sleep either.”

Not a denial. Not a surrender. Just truth, left bare between you.

“So you were thinking of me.”

“You left me little choice in that. Not after a hard day. Not once the noise died down and the hall emptied out. Not when night falls and it’s late. And it is late, Domina.”

Maybe that’s why you’d summoned him again. Not in the daylight, not for show. But now, with the fire low and no one else around.

You didn’t want a good man.

He paused. Just long enough to let it sink in.

“Tell me,” quieter now. “Were you thinking of me, too?”

You didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Just moved, slowly, soundlessly, rising from the couch with the lazy grace of something wild and certain of its strength. The silk slid down your arm, baring your shoulder. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t look away.

One step. Then another.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Something about the way you came toward him, calm, unhurried, eyes locked on his, made the air tighten in his lungs.

You stopped in front of him. Close enough he could count your eyelashes. Close enough to smell the faint trace of oil and iron still clinging to his skin.

Your hand came up, fingers brushing just beneath the collar at his throat. Just a touch. Barely.

Then you voiced, low, like something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted…”

You trailed off, your eyes distracted by his pulse.

His hand twitched at his side. That little slip of honesty had sunk its teeth into him.

He gave a slow, wolfish smile, lips parted just enough to show the sharp edge of his teeth. “You’re the one who holds the chain, Domina.”

Your eyes flickered up to his. Was that a smile behind your gold mask? He couldn’t tell, but the air between you thickened.

“And you’re the one pulling on it like a hound.”

There it was, that snap, that clash. Heat spiked beneath his skin. He didn’t flinch from it. He reveled in it.

“You like it when I pull,” he said, voice low and rough, daring you to deny it.

Without breaking eye contact, your fingers twisted and grabbed the collar at his throat. With a sharp pull, the cold iron bit hard into his skin, making him flinch, a sting that set his blood racing. And fuck, he liked it. The bite, the burn, the way you looked at him when you did it.

— ❖ —

Your fingers stayed curled in the collar.

You didn’t let go.

You held it tight, letting the iron bite just a moment longer, watching his throat work around a swallow. You could feel it, the pulse fluttering beneath his skin. Fast. Hungry.

Good.

Slowly, you loosened your grip. Not in mercy, but to drag it out. The pads of your fingers brushed along the inside rim of the collar as you moved, slow enough to make it clear you were exploring, not retreating.

Your other hand came up, resting flat against his chest.

Warm.

Unarmored.

You felt the rise and fall of his breath, the steady thud of his heart under your palm. Faster than it should’ve been for a man who hadn’t moved a muscle. Faster still as you slid your hand higher, fingers grazing the base of his throat, soft skin, so vulnerable.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

“Did you think about this?” you asked softly, gaze pinned to his. “About me… touching you like this?”

Your fingers dragged all over his chest, not gentle, not soft. They caught on the old scars that split his skin like warnings, ridges and pale seams from a life of being torn open and stitched shut again. You traced one slowly, letting your nail catch the edge. He didn’t flinch. He offered it. Eyes locked, body still, like a wolf daring you to see how close you could get to its teeth.

“Yes.”

That single word, rough and raw, made the space between you narrow.

“About my hands?” Your voice dropped as your fingers glided higher. “My mouth?”

“All of it.” His breath caught, not from shame, but from how badly he still wanted. “Every sound you made.”

The heat in his voice struck you low, sharp, and sudden. The way he gave it up like it was nothing, like he'd choke on it if he held it in any longer. It made your blood heat, your own want twisting sharp beneath your ribs. Your thumb reached the hollow of his throat, hovered, then pressed down, not to silence, just to feel him there, just enough to remind him who was touching whom.

“Every night,” you said.

He gave a faint, bitter breath of a laugh. “Every fucking night.”

That pleased you. Deeply.

“Couldn’t help it?” you asked, low and cruel. “You touched yourself.”

His gaze flicked down, not in shame, but with that sharp, challenging tilt of his head.

“So did you.”

That halted you. Just for a moment. The honesty of it. The audacity.

He took your pause and pushed.

“You thought of me,” he said, voice lower now, dangerous.

You turned your head slightly, eyes dragging down his body like a brand. Your fingers followed, slow, deliberate, over his chest, his ribs, down the hard line of his stomach. “I watched you,” like that was all the explanation he needed. Like you hadn’t had a choice.

He exhaled, jaw flexing. A groan tried to claw its way out of his throat and died there. Held back.

You scraped your fingers down his chest, over hard flesh and battle-worn skin, slow and unforgiving, the way a blade licks before it cuts, savoring the way the muscle jumped beneath your touch.

“My voice in your head,” you murmured. “That’s what you needed?” Your eyes dragged over him, your mouth hovering where it would do the most damage. “My voice calling you good, my hand wrapped around you while you begged for more?”

He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat.

“You came,” you whispered. “Alone.”

A shiver rolled through him, like he was holding himself back with iron will alone.

“You like this,” he rasped. “Cutting me open like this. With your mouth, with your fucking voice.”

You smiled, sharp as broken glass.

“Say it.”

The sound he made was low. “You. On top of me. That look in your eyes like you’d fuck me or kill me, and I wouldn’t even care which.”

Then, a twisted smile, dangerous and hungry.

“This. Just like this.”

Your own smile was all teeth and threat and promise hidden behind a golden visage.

“I knew it.”

And still, he didn’t flinch.

He just looked at you like he wanted to bite and bleed for the privilege.

You stepped in closer, so close your chest nearly brushed his, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him like a furnace just barely contained. But instead of taking what you knew he’d give, you moved behind him. He turned his head slightly, tracking you with the sharp awareness of something half-feral, half-tamed. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

You let the silence stretch, dragging your fingers in a slow, circling path just above his waistband. Your palm hovered, not touching at first, taunting, until finally, finally, you laid your hands flat.

He didn’t breathe.

“You’ve been good,” you said quietly, fingers continuing their path higher, up his side. “Keeping still. Not reaching.”

A pause as your hands flattened again, skimming across the broad stretch of muscle just over his ribs.

“I didn’t even have to tell you.”

Another shiver rippled through him. His hands twitched at his sides like he was suddenly reminded of the option. Then he stilled again.

Your nails dragged again, harder this time, catching along old scar tissue that crisscrossed the plane of his back. Some long healed, some jagged. None untouched. You traced them all. You made sure of it.

He was enormous up close. Wide and brutal across the back, all muscles and tension, like a warhorse trying not to charge. You let your gaze drink him in, and your hands followed, slow, unhurried, like a whisper meant to be heard only skin-deep.

The muscles there weren’t just strong. They were sculpted, forged by weight and war and years of never letting his guard down. He was built to bear armor and carry bodies, to take damage and come back worse for it. His shoulders alone could hold the world, and from the tight coil of them now, it looked like he was, straining against himself to obey you, to stay still when all he wanted to do was reach.

You touched him like you owned him.

The base of his neck, where the tendons flexed and twitched with tension. You let your thumb slide down the ridge of his spine, feeling each dip like a secret made for your hand. Lower, across the stretch of his shoulders, thick muscle, knotting tighter with every breath he took. Your fingers grazed the upper curve of his back, then curled into a light rake just beneath his shoulder blades.

He exhaled hard, almost a growl.

You dragged your hand lower, wanting to know the hard-earned muscle down either side of his spine, the precise taper of his waist where strength met agility, all power wrapped in skin that bore a thousand old struggles.

There were scars everywhere. Long ones, straight and clean. Others jagged, like he’d been clawed by something not quite human. Thin, silver ones that made your bones ache at the thought of some bastard whipping him. You followed the path of one that ran from the back of his ribs toward his spine, pressing your nail into the seam.

Still, he didn’t move.

“You’re trying so hard,” you murmured, letting your hand drift back up.

His shoulders hunched tighter.

You scraped your nails down again, slow and sharp, until the muscle beneath your hand jumped. His breath hitched loud enough to make you grin.

“You’re burning,” you said. “Aren’t you?”

No answer. Just the rise and fall of his chest, heavy now. The subtle tremor in his arms where they hung at his sides.

You stepped in closer, close enough for the heat rolling off him to catch your breath, to let your hands flatten at the blades of his shoulders and just stay there for a moment.

“You’re magnificent like this,” you whispered, hands gliding slowly over his shoulders, down the thick curves of his biceps. “Even more than I remembered.”

A faint tremble caught your voice. Not from fear, but from something far deeper. The weight of his stillness. The quiet hum of violence banked just beneath his skin. It made your head light, your thighs wet. You knew what he looked like wild, chained, fighting. But this —

This was worship.

You squeezed down over his forearms, following every coiled line of power beneath his skin. Your palms smoothed over old bruises, long scars, ridges carved by violence. And there, your fingers reached the iron cuffs biting into his wrists. You hated them suddenly. Not for what they were, but because they interfered. You wanted his skin bare. You wanted to feel the grind of tendon and bone beneath your own grip. To know the shape of his strength by touch alone.

Your breath caught as the thought twisted darker.

What if you pushed him? What if you made him break?

The idea made something in you burn.

Your hands slid over the back of his, fingers brushing his knuckles, and you felt it. The spasm. A lightning flicker of motion. Like his hands were starving to move, to grab, to pin and pull and hold. You wanted them on you. You wanted to deny them a little longer.

“You could snap me in half,” you murmured against his shoulder blade.

His shoulders flexed at the sound of your voice, hips twitching forward with an unconscious jerk. You couldn’t see his cock, but you imagined it, thick and flushed, straining hard and helpless against the drapes of his linen, neglected, every beat of his pulse throbbing through it.

You clenched at the thought, aching and empty between your thighs.

Your hands moved again. You trailed down his sides, over the sculpted terrain of his ribs, feeling the shifting muscle beneath his skin. He was breathing deep, slow and heavy, as if to anchor himself in the moment. To draw you into him. Your touch became his breath.

You lingered there, palms curving over his ribs, holding him like a lover would hold something precious. Your silks brushed his back and raised goosebumps across every inch of exposed skin. He could feel you, just the press of your breast against his back, the teasing flicker of your hip, and each contact lit him up like a fuse. You heard the hitch in his throat, the bitten-back groan swallowed behind gritted teeth.

He was unraveling.

And your hands kept moving.

You pressed over the firm plane of his abdomen, nails grazing lower with each pass. You could feel the way he tensed under your palm, his control fraying, need vibrating through every taut muscle. You framed the soft dip of his navel, drawing a line there, dangerous and close, but never slipping lower.

Your voice was barely audible now.

“Still so good for me…” You let your lips shape the words against the heat of his back, not able to touch. Just cold metal. Just promise.

And he shuddered like a man being broken open from the inside out.

Your fingers move to the knot at his hip.

It was barely anything, just a simple wrap to cover him. But even that felt too much. You wanted him exposed, desperately. You wanted to peel him bare like something exquisite, something you conquered.

Your fingers worked slowly, deliberately, brushing the backs of your knuckles against the firm line of his waist as you untied the wrap.

The fabric fell.

You stepped closer, the press of your body flush against his back now, your robe brushing his skin, your breasts pressing against him with every breath.

Your hands slid lower again. Over his stomach, down his sides, fingertips pressing into the heat of him. And there, you paused, fingers framing just above his groin.

He sucked in a breath. Looked down.

His cock, thick, flushed, already wet with need, jerked against his belly at just the suggestion of your touch. A curse ripped out of his chest, low and raw, helpless.

Your fingertips hovered on either side of him, barely brushing, the restraint in your touch more punishing than any chain.

He was trembling now. His muscles flexing so hard beneath your touch, it made his cock twitch again, precum dripping down the shaft in a maddening slide.

Then, he watched your hand move.

Your fingertip traced the underside of him, slow and reverent, following the gleam of wetness from base to head.

He groaned, no, panted, body tight, neck bowed, eyes fixed on your hand like it was the only thing that existed.

Your hand was so small.

And he was so hard.

You touched him like he was sacred. Like he might vanish. Like you were memorizing every vein, every pulse, every inch of him. The drag of your fingertip was maddening, too gentle, too slow. And when you reached the ridge of his head, his hips snapped again, more precum slicking over your finger.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t flinch.

You gathered the wetness with your fingertips, spreading it over him, feeling the contrast of silk-slick skin stretched tight over brutal hardness. He was swollen, trembling, flushed deep with blood, and so hot to the touch. When your touch passed over his slit, just the faintest press, he moaned, from the chest, from somewhere deeper, like the sound had to be torn out of him.

You felt him throb, desperate and aching.

He thought he might die if you touched him properly.

And he might die if you didn’t.

You should have stopped.

You knew that. You should have stepped back before you fell too far, before the ache between your legs turned blinding, before you forgot your own games and let yourself beg.

But he whimpered.

You didn’t even know how he managed it, with all that power, all that bulk, all that lethal tension wound through every inch of him, but the sound slipped out when your palm finally wrapped around him. It was wounded. It was desperate. His back bowed hard enough that the chain at his neck rattled, and his hand, his hand, snapped down over yours like he might fucking die if you let go.

You froze, breath caught, your heart slamming in your ribs as his grip tightened over your fist and he held.

He was squeezing so hard it should have hurt. You weren’t even sure whose hand was doing what anymore; you only felt the heat of him, the pulse, the madness of his restraint crackling through his body like a taut wire about to snap.

His head dropped forward, breath coming in ragged gasps. And still… he didn’t let go.

Not because you’d commanded him not to finish. You hadn’t said a word. You didn’t need to.

It was him.

He was the one holding back. He was the one refusing the edge, clinging to the moment like it might be the last. You realized, with a quiet jolt, what he was really afraid of.

He wasn’t ready for it to end.

He didn’t want you to call for his removal.

You whispered to him, barely able to catch your breath. “You are unreal… gods, look at you. Look what you were doing to me.”

Your voice cracked, and his body jerked like he felt it in his spine.

“You’re holding back so well,” you murmured against the sweat-slick skin, your forehead pressed against it, just trying to breathe him in. “For me. Just for me.”

Your hand tightened around his cock, and the choked sound he made was shattering.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growled through gritted teeth, voice wrecked, torn apart by effort.

“I didn’t know you could be that good,” you whispered, awed and vicious and delirious. “Didn’t know a beast like you could beg without words. Could tremble like that just from my hands. You’re so hard… You’re dripping.”

His hand, still over yours, tensed and released, squeezing around his cock so tight your palm felt the way his heartbeat jumped. It was wild. Thudding. So damn loud it drowned out everything else. You didn’t dare breathe.

He held it.

Then let go.

Then grabbed again, as if the mere sight of your hand still wrapped around him was enough to tip him over the brink.

His hips twitched forward, helpless. His thighs were quivering. His shoulders bunched and strained. His mouth hung open and his whole body shuddered with the force of his control, like he was trying to wrestle his own orgasm into submission.

Your other hand was still braced on his hip, fingers digging deep into the solid muscle. You didn’t realize how tight you were holding until your nails sank into hot flesh and he flinched. Until he gasped.

You didn’t let go.

You dug in harder.

You could have made him bleed.

The thought turned your breath into a moan. He was so sensitive. Every breath, every twitch, every pulse of his cock against your palm, it was like his body had been built to be unraveled, yours to take apart.

“You were divine like this. All power and violence, built to fight, and still, still you let me do this to you.”

When his hand finally released yours, no longer crushing it in a desperate grip, you let go too. The sound he made in protest was immediate, low, rough, almost pained. You ignored it.

Instead, you braced both hands against his hips and pushed.

“Move.”

He stumbled forward towards the couch, just half a step, before the chain snapped taut, yanking him short and almost striking you. The collar bit deep into his neck. He grunted, surprised, like he’d forgotten about it entirely in the haze of your touch.

“Going to be good for me now?” you asked, voice suddenly going sharp.

It was a question, an order, a warning. It was a plea, too, buried somewhere beneath the thrum of your pulse and the heat pooling in your stomach. You didn’t know what you’d do if he made you put him down.

You had a blade tucked at the small of your back. Just in case.

He had to behave. He had to be good.

Because it would be a tragedy to waste him, to slit that vein at his throat, or drive your dagger into the soft inside of his thigh. His blood would stain everything. It would be over too fast. And you’d have to be quick, faster than him, faster than instinct. And you weren’t sure you could be.

The thought made your chest rise and fall in uneven rhythm. The image of fighting him, really fighting him, thrilled and terrified you in equal measure.

“Yes, Domina,” he said at last.

Your fingers brushed behind you, finding the hilt of the dagger, the soft leather reassuring against your palm. Just a touch. Just in case.

Then you drew out the key.

It hung from the delicate gold chain between your breasts, almost ornamental, almost forgotten until now. You stepped close enough to press the key into the lock at the base of his iron collar, your other hand still poised at your blade.

With a twist, the lock clicked. The collar fell away from his neck and clattered onto the marble floor, the sound far too loud in the charged silence.

The leash was gone. The chain was no more.

And still, you stood behind him, heart hammering, blade within reach.

The air between you was thick with it — that oppressive anticipation. Your hand hovered near your blade. His breath was fast and ragged.

Then he moved.

He didn't turn. Didn't lunge. Didn't bolt. He just stepped forward, the last few feet to the couch. One hand reached back, found your elbow, and wrapped around it with enough certainty to leave no room for hesitation, dragging you with him.

Only when he reached the couch did he let you go. He turned, sat back against the cushions in a slow, deliberate motion, legs spread and spine stiff, and left you standing there in front of him, flushed from neck to navel, heart pounding so hard it felt like your body might come apart.

A mirror of that first time.

He looked at you like a starving man. Like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. Behind the mask, his eyes were blown wide, glazed and dark with need. His lips were red, parted, slick with spit, and the thought of him holding your name in his mouth was more intoxicating than the wine.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't have to.

His expression was nothing short of a plea.

I’m being good.

But whatever he saw in your face wasn’t enough.

Because he reached for you all at once. No warning. Just the rough clink of the chain still between his wrists and his hands locking hard around your hips, dragging you forward. You barely stayed upright, caught off-balance by his strength. One hand slid lower, gripping your thigh and hauling your leg up and over him.

You sank into his lap, landed hard, knees bracketing his hips, hands slamming into his chest to catch yourself. He was burning under your palms. Slick with sweat. Breathing like a beast. And you were right there, right over him. Your cunt poised just above the thick, hot line of his cock. Only your robe kept you from full contact.

And then he let go.

Like he’d touched something forbidden.

His hands dropped to the cushions beside him. Palms up. Open. Harmless. He tilted his head back, exposing his throat, the long line of it flushed and vulnerable. His breath came shallow and fast, his mask catching the light just so. A show of obedience so sharp it made your mouth go dry.

You looked at him and thought he might beg for it.

You wished he would. Imagined him undone beneath you. His want, barely contained. The ache of it so honest, so open it nearly undid you.

The image tore through your spine like lightning. Your hips moved before your mind caught up, grinding down in one slow, aching roll.

He arched beneath you with a broken sound. His hands clenched in velvet, desperate to stay where he put them. Your robe was soaked now, silk sticking to your folds, pressing your heat into his cock like it belonged there.

He was shaking.

And you were drunk on it.

But when you moved again, when you rolled your hips with more intention, chasing the pleasure that had come so easily a moment ago, it wasn’t the same. Your movement faltered. Rougher. Off-kilter. A messy grind instead of that fluid, seductive roll. You cursed under your breath and tried again.

Up until now, it had all been heat and hunger. Touch and words. All your talk. All your games. All the fantasy you’d spun so easily from the safety of distance. It had never reached here.

You’d never imagined this part, this raw, grinding intimacy. You knew what sex was. What it meant for a man to take a woman, to mount her, use her. But this, riding a man’s cock through your clothes, pressing your cunt to him until silk clung to your slick heat, this wasn’t in any of those stories.

You hadn’t thought it would feel like this, awkward and primal and frighteningly real.

Your thighs shook from the tension of holding yourself above him. Your robe was bunched around your hips, your cunt soaked and pressed into his heat, and still it wasn’t enough.

And he noticed.

Of course he did.

His eyes were locked on your face, wide and disbelieving behind the mask, drinking in every stuttered breath, every broken movement. You didn’t have to say a word. He saw it in you.

His chest hitched, his mouth parted.

“Fuck,” he cursed, voice low and ragged, sounding drunk on something you didn’t understand, words spilling out of him without restraint. “You’ve never done this before.”

Never ground yourself against anyone like this. Never let anyone feel your slick heat through thin silk, never let your hips chase after pleasure like an animal. Never sat above a man with the power to take what you wanted.

And now you were here.

With him.

He looked wrecked. Awed. Something crumbled in his restraint, his hips shifted beneath you, just enough to press his cock firmer into the cradle of your body.

“Take what you want,” he rasped.

Your gaze locked with his, startled.

His voice dropped, hoarse and thick with hunger. “Ride me like a horse.”

You blinked, stunned at the audacity. The imagery. The implication.

“Use me. Move your hips. Like this —”

He lifted his own just enough to show you, a subtle roll upward that made your breath stutter. His cock pressed up against your folds with maddening precision.

“Again,” he said, softer now. “Feel that?”

You swallowed hard and mimicked the motion, your thighs tightening, hips rocking forward. A rush of sensation shot up your spine, molten and aching.

He groaned like you’d torn the sound from his lungs.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Again.”

You did.

Slower this time. Pressing forward with more purpose, letting the soaked silk drag along his length. He felt all of it. You could tell by the way his mouth fell open and his fingers dug deeper into the cushions, still trying to obey, still trying not to touch.

“Good,” he gritted. “Again. Don’t stop.”

There was a weight behind his voice now. That low growl, praise and plea wrapped into one.

Your hips moved as instructed, chasing that sweet friction. Each grind sent a spark through your belly, lighting your nerves from the inside. His cock was heavy and solid beneath you, and even through the silk, the pressure was maddening. It dragged against your clit just enough to keep you wanting.

“Harder,” he said. “Faster, if you can. Let yourself have it.”

You moaned, more from the sound of his wrecked voice than your own pleasure.

Your thighs began to burn with the effort, your pace faltering for a second. He must have felt it, because his voice came again, softer now. “Lean into me. Let me carry some of it.”

You did, letting your hands slide up his chest and your weight settle forward. His breath hitched.

“There you go,” he rasped. “That’s it. Just like that.”

And when your hips found a rhythm, clumsy but desperate, a hungry rocking that sent waves of heat crawling up your spine, he let out a sound that was almost a whimper.

You didn’t think it was possible to feel this warm.

Every nerve lit, skin buzzing with feverish heat. You braced your hands on his shoulders, dug your nails into the slick muscle there, half for balance, half because you needed to feel him. His breath caught at the sting, but he didn’t pull away. He moaned for it.

When your hips snapped down particularly hard, you felt it shoot through both of you. You grabbed at his throat next, to choke, to hold. Just to anchor yourself to that long column of heat pulsing beneath your palm. Then moved higher, to the bottom of his jaw, felt it flex under your grip, felt him growl in your palm.

You wanted to bite him. Hard. Wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to tear off your mask and feel his lips crushed to yours, messy and wet. But you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

The burn low in your core was climbing now, hot and tight, curling with every grind of your hips. Still riding him through soaked silk, still chasing something just out of reach. You needed more.

Your hand dipped between your bodies. Slipped down your belly, over the rumpled fabric. Your fingers found your clit, slick and swollen, and you gasped at the contact. The wet silk dragged exquisitely across sensitive flesh. You circled slowly, then faster, messy, ungraceful, panting into the air. Your hips shuddered in their movement, losing their rhythm to chaos.

He made a sound beneath you, ragged and wrecked.

“Oh, fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, through your fingers.. “Yes. Yes…”

You didn’t stop to think. Didn’t hold back.

Your movements were desperate now, fevered, nothing like before. Not composed. Not teasing. No more elegance, no pretense of control. You were consumed.

And he watched it all like a man starving.

You moaned, loud and open-mouthed. Your back arched. Sweat beaded at the base of your spine. Your fingers slid faster, messier, hips jerking forward, barely touching his cock anymore. You were close — so close — your breath catching on every thrust, every glide of soaked silk against him. Your thighs trembled. Your fingers were frantic.

You hadn’t even realized your hips had slowed to a gentle roll until he made a sound, high and desperate, and snapped his hips up beneath you, fucking against nothing.

His arms were still at his sides, trembling now, every muscle locked tight. His chest rose and fell in quick, gasped breaths. His eyes, wild, burning, devoured you. The way he looked at you nearly tore you apart.

“Touch me,” he whined. A command. A plea.

“Fuck. Just anything.”

Your heart felt like it might explode out of your chest.

You looked down, and his gaze followed yours. The sight stole the breath from your lungs.

The folds of your slick cunt were pressed against the soaked fabric of your robe, wet and clinging, leaving nothing to the imagination. Your clit was swollen, flushed dark, pinned beneath your fingertips as you rubbed. And beneath you, gods, his cock.

Hard and flushed, leaking with every twitch of his hips. A steady drip of precum stained your robe, mixing with your own slick where you rode him. He looked furious with need. Thick and unyielding and perfect. It made your teeth ache to bite him. Made your cunt throb at the thought of him splitting you open.

It was that thought, blazing and vivid, that tipped you over the edge.

Your whole body went rigid. Your thighs clamped around his hips. Your fingers ground down against your clit until sparks exploded behind your eyes. You cried out, shaking, the pleasure crashing over you like a wave breaking ashore.

Your other hand clawed at his chest, carving red lines into flushed, damp skin, until suddenly, it was yanked away.

His arms wrapped around you. One locked tight at the small of your back, dragging you down, holding you there. The other grabbed your hand, pulling it lower, down to his cock.

His fist closed around yours. Big and shaking. He stroked himself using your hand, his breath breaking in your ear.

It only took a few brutal strokes.

He grunted, choked, helpless, and then he was coming. His cock pulsed in your joined grip, spilling hot and thick over his stomach, over your fingers. Shot after shot, painting the space between you.

His arm stayed tight around you, but his body gave out, slumping back into the cushions like he’d been gutted. And you, still straddling him, still trembling with the echo of your climax, followed. The movement was slow, lazy with the weight of satisfaction. He sank, and you went with him, your bodies collapsing into one heat-hazed, sweat-slick sprawl.

His hand settled low on your back. Flat and heavy. Right over the hilt of your dagger.

You felt the shape of it there, the curve of the grip pressing between you. He had to feel it too. Had to know how easy it would be to grab. How close you’d brought it.

He didn’t reach for it.

Didn’t even twitch.

Just breathed, ragged and uneven. His other hand flexed around your thigh once, then stilled.

“You’re either stupid,” he murmured, voice shredded from effort, “or brave.”

You didn’t answer.

“Or just fucking crazy,” he added, softer now. Almost like admiration. “Coming in here, putting a blade right where I could take it. Where I could use it.”

You lifted your head then, from where your breath settled against his throat.

Met his eyes.

Watched the gold in them flicker like a flame starved for air.

He was right. You had brought a weapon close enough for him to take. One move and he could’ve plunged it between your ribs. Or slit your throat. Or held it to your heart and demanded anything he pleased of you.

But he hadn’t.

And you didn’t care what name he gave your choice; you didn’t want to hear his lecture.

So you brought your hand up. Slow. Loose-limbed and unhurried.

Slick fingers. Coated with the mess of your orgasm, your pleasure. You pressed them to his mouth, smeared the wetness over his lips.

He inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even hesitate.

His lips parted, and his tongue curled around your fingertips, sucking them into the heat of his mouth with a hunger that was no longer frantic, but reverent. Deep and slow, like he wanted to memorize the taste.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look away as he sucked. Didn’t blink. His eyes stayed pinned to yours, and the warmth that pooled in your belly was no less intense than what had come before.

Just different.

He released your fingers with a soft, wet pop. His tongue chased the last of you from the pad of your palm, and then he spoke again, quieter this time.

“I should’ve taken it,” he said, almost to himself. “That dagger.”

You leaned in, your impassive mask inches from his skull-shaped one, your voice nothing but breath:

Ghost was in need of a new sword, his old one breaking in a recent match at the Colosseum. His patron was extremely wealthy and thus, he was able to get Ghost's new sword made by the best blacksmith in Rome: you.

He stood outside the forge, staying out of your way while still having you in his line of sights.

While it wasn't unusual for you to make swords for gladiators, it was unusual that a gladiator came and watched you work. All of the gladiators who could afford your services were those with patrons, patrons who would send their servants to pick up the swords and pay you. You rarely saw a gladiator at your forge, until now.

You slammed your heavy hammer down onto the melted metal, shaping it into a sword. You could feel the gladiator's eyes on you, but you focused on your work. You were sweating from the heat and despite it, you were undeterred.

Ghost's brown eyes took in the way you moved, the elegance in your walk despite the heavy tools you were lifting. He took in the way the soot from the fire in the forge settled onto your muscles, dusting your skin as it always did while you worked.

The sight was tantalizing to him. There was something about the way you focused on your task, the world around you fading until all that remained was the work you were doing. He was entranced by your work ethic, by your muscles, by you in general.

He made himself comfortable, enjoying the way he could look upon you and forget all of the fighting he has done prior to meeting you. All of the blood that stained his hands.

When you finally finished the sword and put it in his hands, he felt your calloused fingers brush against his as you pulled away. For once in his life, he felt the touch of another and didn't feel like he was tainting someone. He knew you had done hard work just like he had done and that made his heart swell.

As Ghost turned on his heel and left, he thought about upgrading his daggers next. They were old too, in need of being polished and refined by a blacksmith as skilled as you were.

MDNI & Reblog banners made by @/cafekitsune

Hope this was alright! It's been a little too long since I've created COD content, lol.