who: @bloodfcrblood when and where: the pits and tunnels of the gladiator arena, the master of coin pays a visit to lady qoherys as she inspects her fighters for the next round. context: these two have a very twisted and warped dynamic; it isn't even about being necessarily on and off, but rather what is "on" and what is "off."
the tunnels beneath the gladiator pits stank of sweat, blood, and anticipation—a heady, cloying scent that seemed to seep into the very stones. maximus moved through the shadows with an unhurried stride, the sounds of the crowd above a muffled roar, thrumming against the walls. the torches that lined the passageways threw his shadow long and jagged behind him, a stretched, crooked reflection of a man who had long since stopped caring about the distinction between sin and sport. he found her where he knew she would be—where she always was when the pits roared with life and death.
surrounded by her creatures—bare-chested brutes smeared in blood and sand, their bodies slick and trembling from exertion. she spoke to them with a voice that slithered and coaxed, a serpent’s whisper that stirred both fear and devotion.
they watched her with the dull-eyed reverence of men who knew themselves owned, weapons on two legs whose purpose had long been decided. for a moment, maximus simply watched, content to linger in the shadow of the archway, his gaze tracing the lines of her face—the delicate, dangerous edge of her jaw, the tilt of her mouth as it shaped commands into promises. she had always been a contradiction, saella qoherys—a slip of a woman with a spine of steel, a mouth of honey and venom. once, he had thought her his. once, he had thought they were the same, destined to circle one another until the world finally bent beneath them. but no. she had taught him the folly of such thoughts, and how deceptive women could be in their moments of weakness.
she had lied to him with a skill that would have impressed, had it not been him she had chosen to wound. the thought still coiled in his chest like a buried splinter, a slap in the face of his ego; yet here he was, seeking her out, as though they were still playing that same twisted, ceaseless game, with reptillian eyes looking over her figure as she realised there was another standing directly behind her. he stepped forward, his boots clicking against the stone, the sound sharp and sudden enough to cut through her orders.
the fighters' heads turned first, wary and uncertain, and then hers—those eyes catching on him, sharp and bright, glimmering like the edge of a blade. “interrupting a sermon, am i?” he drawled, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that had once charmed her and now served as little more than a provocation. “i almost feel guilty.” he let his gaze pass lazily over the assembled fighters—these caged beasts dressed in sinew and bruises, their minds bent to her will. they had no choice. there was something almost admirable about it, the way she wielded power without ever bothering to wield a sword. a more dangerous kind of cruelty, he supposed.
“the crowds are restless, qoherys.” he said, turning back to her, his voice light but edged - and in the distance, there came the sound of a thundering rumble from directly above their heads. “they want more—something to sate them before they turn their hunger to each other.” his eyes flickered to her lips, a brief, thoughtless betrayal. “more of it.” he wondered if she understood the luxury she held here, in this half-lit underworld, where her will was law and men bled to prove it. up there, in the light of the sun, power was measured in numbers and debts, tallied in ledgers by men like him. but here, it was primal—savage and absolute. it was hers, and hers alone. it allured him, made him want to pull her onto him. “or shall i tell them that even the queen of the pits cannot satisfy their appetites?”
his smile lingered, teasing, baiting. he knew she hated that—being doubted, questioned, challenged. it was what made her so unbearable and so impossible to forget. saella qoherys had always been the girl with teeth, the girl who bit before she kissed, who licked blood from her wounds with a sweetness that sickened. it would have been easier if she were simpler—if she were merely cruel or merely clever. but no. she was both, in a way that had tangled itself into him long ago, a knot that refused to unravel. she had lied to him—lied with a lie that could have brought him to his knees, that could have unmade him had he let it. and still, there she stood, poised and unyielding, commanding monsters with a flick of her tongue.
"how shall we provide for them?"
his gaze lingered on hers, unblinking, waiting. waiting for the wound, the retort, the bite of her reply. that was how it had always been between them—a battle disguised as flirtation, a game with no end, no winner. they were each too proud to concede, too cruel to relent. still, he wanted the animals unleashed upon them. as did the rest of the crowds.
