These Hands Are Yours To Command

[Barca]

Barca was highly displeased that someone went off track and wound up ramming the practice sword into his ribs. It would take more than that to take down the Beast of Carthage but he was angry none the less. An over eager fucking recruit trying to prove himself. It only resulted in Barca whacking him with the side of his spear, sending him to the ground. His hand went on the wound, bloodied and bruised, glaring at the inferior fuck with anger. He took a step before him but in that moment, Doctore called to him, telling him to see to medicus. As if the man anticipated what Barca's retaliation would be. Which, he basically did. With a final glare, as if to say that this was not over, Barca did as ordered, moving towards the medicus, pausing when he found another male there to tend to him while the medicus was busy.

After all, his wound was not grievous. Suddenly, Barca found himself fortunate that he was here, in the presence of Pietros. Pietros had caught the eye of the larger male, and since then, Barca was . . . drawn to him. Wanting him. It reminded him of those initial feelings he had toward Auctus. A familiar pull towards the other, though neither male held any similarities. Especially physically. Still. Pietros held a beauty that Barca almost felt at the mercy of. Though he would not admit it. Least of all to his brothers. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching the other male with keen interest, his expression softening from the former anger. "You are here to tend?" He asked, hoping he was; hoping that he had no other task to occupy him. Because . . . finally, Barca was alone with the man he was infatuated with.

Tag: Pietros

[Pietros]

The sun blistered down across the backs of the gladiators as they trained and battled, effort dripping across strained muscles, dust kicking up from their feet and curses spilling from their mouths. The pungent odors of blood and sweat and filth lingered in the stale air and could turn a frail stomach sick. It was the very picture of brutal masculinity and it forced one boy in particular to stick out like a sore thumb. Thin, short and modest, he certainly didn't belong down here in the depths of hell but that is where Batiatus had placed him; to assist his Doctore and serve his gladiators. A slave to the slaves. 

Sidelong glances and rude gestures had become the norm during the boy's first few days serving a new dominus. Although he supposed it was something he might have already been used to, the boy, called Pietros, had damn good reason to fear blood-thirsty gladiators over fellow common house slaves. His dark eyes flickered across the mass of hostile and belligerent flesh, peering at the broad back of one man specifically. He stood as a giant, seeming heads above the others, yet moved with all the fluid grace one could expect from a dancer. The combination was odd and mesmerising at the same time, and it pulled Pietros if only for a moment from the cruel world in which he lived and into an alternate space where he could let his guard down and just be. So entranced was he that he almost missed the moment when the giant's opponent unjustly stuck him in the ribs, a foul move to be sure, for even in the pit of blood and guts there was some sort of etiquette to abide by.

A stern order from Doctore coaxed him from his musing and back into reality. Realizing the brute was headed his way. he turned back to Medicus and found him still knee deep in shit from two new recruits that still clawed at each other despite multiple bloody injuries. There was a sinking feeling in the boy's gut and upon Barca's arrival, Medicus barked a barrage of terse orders for Pietros to follow causing a thick skin of nervousness to tighten around him, nearly choking the air from his lungs. Still, ever obedient, he fetched a basin of water, aloe and a long roll of bandages, sinking to his knees before the wounded titan and offering a muted smile and a hasty nod as an answer to his question. "Allow me to gaze upon wound," he spoke with a voice not yet matured to manhood. To say Pietros was unskilled in the area of wound dressing would be a lie, but it was, however, a skill seldom used and he may have been rougher than intended when grasping Barca's hand to remove it from his pierced side. Yet in doing so, Pietros immediately took notice of the sheer size of such a hand. A calloused and well worked hand that easily gripped spears and swords and necks and cocks. It was like clasping the hand of Ptah and living to tell about it. In keeping with the domino effect, Pietros also dared to direct his gaze upward at the gladiator. He'd only wanted to catch a glimpse, a better look at the face of a living legend but what he found were soft eyes and the slightest hint of a smile. It may have been a stretch to say the gaze was 'kind' but it was certainly different from fury shown out on the sands. Pietros grinned like a fucking fool nearly tipping the basin in the process. Visibly flustered, he shifted and wrung out a wet cloth to remove the blood from Barca's flesh.

[Barca]

Barca's eyes remained fixated on Pietros. Watching with keen interest every movement; as if he was placed under some trance. Mesmerized. Captivated. Utterly enthralled. It was not infrequent for Barca to do so. When he had caught glimpses of Pietros in the house, he had not been able to look away. And now, he was here among them. Allowing him to drink his fill of the beautiful male. Hearing Pietros request to see the wound, left Barca wanting to offer more than mere sight of it. "You may gaze at all you desire," he said with the continued subtle smirk in his expression, offered only to that of a softer individual.

Of that whom Barca wished to know in greater depth than a mere slave tending to him. Pietros' gentle touch was a sensation that Barca found most comforting, though intended to move it from his wound . . . it felt as gentle as the man's features. Something Barca could notice more closely with the way he made eye contact. And his smile. That fucking smile. The Beast of Carthage, inches above all, with Pietros kneeled before him . . . felt at the Egyptian's mercy. Barca's smile grew a little, seeing that Pietros felt a same fluster that Barca did, only one was more evident through actions. "Your touch his soft," he told him, more as a compliment than insult. "A rarity in such place." For the Medicus did not offer such gentle touch. Nor would Barca have it from him. Pietros was far more appealing than the other man.

Tag: Pietros

[Pietros]

Kind words. Now that was the real rarity. They swelled his heart and colored his cheeks yet Pietros kept his head bent and his gaze down, a small seed of fear that Barca would notice and mistake his appreciation for invitation. Barca was indeed a marvel to look upon but for all Pietros knew, he was just like the others and was only looking for advantage. Although he was fit, Pietros was still slim and petite enough to be harassed as a woman might and he was far too meek to fight back once provoked. So, it would seem fairly obvious that he'd want to keep as much distance as he could between himself and the other men. Still, his ears flamed red, dwelling on Barca's words while tending to his wound which wasn't quite as bad as it seemed once the blood was cleaned up. No stitching would be needed, but a good tight wrap and a couple days rest seemed likely.

In the end, Pietros decided it was best to remain silent and give a nod in gratitude before preparing long bandages and rising to his feet. He bent over Barca in such a way that as he worked, his breath caressed the skin of the older man's back. "It is not too tight?" He finally spoke as he tugged on the bandages. Too tight would make it hard for Barca to breathe but too loose would accomplish nothing.

tag : Barca

[Barca]

Pietros' silence left Barca wondering as to whether it was Pietros was unused to such words, or too used to them. The boy was delicate, soft features, incredible attractive and having an air of innocence about him that Barca could imagine may would be drawn to. So perhaps he was merely accustomed to he desirous words that fell from others lips. Barca refused to just casually remain among them without furthering his hope to speak more to Pietros. Though, he also knew that it would require the Dominus' approval. Barca respected the masters of the house well enough to know whether a slave was off limits to the gladiators. Besides, the beast of Carthage held enough favor to be given proper answer and even preference should he desire it.

What Barca did notice was the coloring of his skin, causing Barca to give a smile. When the other moved to stand behind him, tying the bandage, Barca simply just shook his head at the inquiry as to whether it was too tight. "The bloom in your cheeks cause me to consider you are not accustomed to such words." There was a light tease to his words. "Do mine please you?" He further questioned, turning his head to look at Pietros as best he could at this angle.

Tag: Pietros