offer Title: Offer
Author: Andre
Disclaimers: I don't own them, Dreamworks does (Why does Spielberg have all the luck?).
Pairing: Maximus/Commodus
Rating: NC-17 - M/M
Spoilers: abound!
Warnings: This story is slash, if M/M is not your cuppa, you may wish to take a pass on this one. This story is dark... very, very dark! Angst. Some elements of non-consent (sort of).

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"I think you've been afraid, all your life."

The words, ringing out through the musty cell, rang true... to an extent. To enough of an extent to enrage the youth so daringly taunting the chained gladiator. He, Caesar, fear? Perhaps. However, not in the way he was certain Maximus --his former friend-- lately enemy had intended the words to be interpreted.

Why did Maximus resist? It was vexing. Vexing in the extreme. He'd already offered this man his hand, and been refused once, why then would he, should he, offer it again? Offer this man mercy even now, after conspiring with those close to him, and those arrogant senators? Why could Maximus not serve with the same fidelity as Quintus? He was Caesar after all, why did the disobedience of one man anger and magnetize him so completely all in the same breath?

Ah, but if the answers were that simple, he would not now be here, would he? Here, amongst the slaves and prisoners deep beneath the Coliseum, the name of his tormentor ringing out around him from the lips of fifty thousand expectant Romans waiting above?

Jealousy? No, he snorted at his own thought. Rivalry? Perhaps. Whatever she pretended Lucilla, -his- Lucilla, -did- love this man, or at least had. His father certainly had. Anger? Certainly. His anger had known no bounds, and both Maximus and Maximus' family had been meant to pay the price.

Why had the Fates spared Maximus, he wondered, if not for Maximus to acquiesce to the will of his mighty, glorious, and loving Caesar? These questions had been burning in his mind these past several days he had known his nemesis yet lived. None of that really mattered, did it? Not in light of what he meant to do to Maximus. Meant to... have from him.

Already, three of his guard were relocating the prisoners in the two adjoining cells. Moving them out of range to witness what was to follow. A curt nod, and flash of his eyes warned Quintus away. He wanted this... this gladiator to himself. No witnesses. No one to see the bare truth of their Emperor's driving motivations. Not one living soul to witness he, mighty Caesar, on his knees in front of an infamis - a gladiator, a mere slave. No, it would be just he and Maximus.

"And I say, perhaps it is you, who have always been afraid, slave," rage, want, and desperation rasped in his words, before his voice softened. "Maximus... Maximus, it only comes to this because -you- wish it so."

The chains jerked wildly, tightening as Maximus attempted to lunge forward, "Because I wish it?" The Spaniard's voice lowered, becoming little more than a feral growl, "All I wish for, is your death." A halt, a pause, then the acknowledgement, dripping with heavy sarcasm, "Caesar."

"And have you never wished for anything else from me, Maximus?" His tone was soft, more a gentle, teasing caress than an admonition. If Maximus had any reply he hid it behind his implacable façade of silent indignation.

Even chained, subdued, Maximus was a glorious specimen. Hard, firm muscles rippled beneath tan skin, the blue slave's tunica only serving to enhance the man's physique. The General had first caught his eye some several years ago, before his father's latest accursed campaigns in Germania had even begun. The years of battle that followed had only served to harden the Spaniard, and make him that much more appealing. They had danced around this issue far too long.

With predatory grace, his hand caught the gladiator's chin in a firm, unyielding grip. Maximus didn't flinch, or yield so much as an inch as his eyes bore into Maximus', searching the angry, vivid blue for any trace of emotion besides rage and indignation.

"Why is it so difficult for you to accept me... to love me?" He had to school his voice ruthlessly to keep it from breaking as his questions tumbled out. "Was that too much for your Caesar to ask of one of Rome's most dutiful servants?"

"What you asked," the gladiator spat, "was more than I could give."

Ah, good, Maximus was talking. It was a start. A strange thrill ran through him. He had not counted on the baiting of this wild, ferocious man to enflame him quite this much. Still, he had to know what Maximus meant by that comment. "Because of my father?" His voice, now softened, adopted a prodding tone, one that silently, yet gently commanded answers.

Moments passed; long stretches of heartbeats melding into the cacophony above. Finally Maximus' deep voice broke the silent stalemate in a moment of surprising candor. "Now, yes," with no small amount of force, the older man wrenched his head away, eyes focusing on some indistinct point in the distance.

He prompted, "And before?"

"Before?" The Spaniard's eyes snapped back intently, to focus on him, the reply cutting, "before, there was my... wife."

Noting the way Maximus' eyes and nostrils began to flare, he knew he was treading into dangerous waters. "And are you so above all other men, Maximus, that you would deny yourself everything over one mere woman?" Dangerous waters, indeed. His quarry fell silent; his only answer the burning rage brimming over the blue of the other man's eyes.

Another, longer silence this time. Moments seemingly etched into a palpable eternity. Finally Maximus spoke again, this time, warningly, voice thick with choked emotion. "Even if I might have been able to give you that... then, I can not now." Simple. Direct. Maximus.

His patience had worn thin, his composure beginning to give way to an almost feverish madness. "Can not?" His eyes flashing deathly warnings, "Or will not?"

"Can not, and will not, Commodus." Maximus' statement was flat. Emotionless. Cold.

Raising his hand, his fingers began to trace the strong, bearded jaw with surprising gentleness. His words, however, were filled, echoing with menace, "And I say you can, and -will-, Maximus, as you have always wanted to." The blank, shocked stare that met him caused the corner of his lips to twist into a cruel smile.

"How is it you think you can force -me-, Commodus? Do you think, even chained, that I cannot fight back?" Challenge. Bald-faced, unmitigated challenge.

At last, temper ragged, he was growing weary of this game. "Maximus, I love you too well, -know- you too well." Allowing menace to reclaim his movements and frame, he circled his prey, leaning close, his words a mere whisper in the gladiator's ear, "For if you do not grant me what I wish of you, dear Lucius will pay the price."

His words had the desired effect. Clearly. Irrefutably. Maximus' entire bulk stiffened, breath catching, mutating into a low, wounded growl. The General's jaw twitched visibly, rippling beneath the surface of tanned skin, blue eyes closing slowly. Yes, his words had hit their mark with deadly, unerring accuracy.

The irony edging into the now defeated man's voice was not missed in the least. "I am at Caesar's service."

Now. Here. At last. His hands roamed up the broad chest before him, learning, tracing, and committing to memory the sensation of warm flesh beneath the coarse blue tunica. Maximus stood utterly still beneath his touch, only the man's steady breathing indicating increasing fear, or perhaps something else.

He allowed his hands to trail lower, questing over firm hips, solid thighs. Yes, the thrill of this was even more amazing than he could have dreamed of. Feverish words rose, slipped from his lips unbidden in this place-out-of-time, "Do not hate me, Maximus... I have never wanted your hate... only your... love." No reply, just the unsteady beating of two hearts, echoing with impossible volume, it seemed.

He moved closer, allowing his body to lean into Maximus, seeking warmth, strength. He had his key now. Had his way to mold the immovable warrior to his will. Knew the Spaniard's weakness. Dropping his face into the crook of Maximus' neck, his voice was a mere whisper. "You shall have more than you ever dreamed of, Maximus."

"I want... nothing." Terse. Grave. Heated?

"Nothing, Maximus?" Like a steely panther, he began to slide slowly downwards, sinking to his knees, his body connecting with Maximus' at a thousand different points, each one flaring, burning, charged with tense sparking energy. "Your body tells a different story, Maximus, I can smell the want on you." It was true, in a raw way. The stoic general was, in the end, only mere flesh and blood; body betraying his mind.

Hands trailing up the back of powerful thighs, he could feel Maximus stiffen, coil at his words. For one fleeting moment, he wondered if his captive lover would strike out at him. But no, Maximus was too sensible for that, he realized quickly. The gruff gladiator would not willingly bear the blood of an innocent on his hands. Maximus was wholly -his- now.

Caressing upwards, inwards, his seeking hands connected with hot, hard flesh. Pressing his face against the roughly woven fabric he mused quietly, "Your body does not lie to me, Maximus."

"What I bear, I bear for Lucius' sake, I do not do this for you." So stolid. So stubborn. So... intoxicating.

Lazily, he stroked, pulled, teased at the velvety-hard prize wrapped in his hand. He was aware of all the complexities that comprised the unique scent of this man. Leather, metal, sweat, heat, rage, and want; all mingling into a cohesive, defining whole. All his now. He needed this. Terribly. Needed it in so many desperate ways it rocked him, frightened him, exciting him beyond words.

More. Now. Yes. Hot, slick glide of lips over flesh. Tasting. Questing. Urging. He could feel the struggle in his unwilling partner. Feel the dangerous thrill of conquest. Feel the heat and need rise up within in ways he had not thought remotely possible.

Long, languid strokes of his tongue mingled with steady, forceful sucking. As much as he sensed Maximus was fighting this, his mouth, his hands were too talented. Too knowing. Yes. There. More. Another slick slide of his tongue and a growl of unwilling pleasure rang in his ears. Bitter-sweet-salty taste pervading his senses. More. His hands, no longer gentle, digging into Maximus' hips, holding the man firm. More. Heated groans now, wrested by sheer force from his partner. Incendiary. More. The body he trapped and held so fiercely stiffened, shook, convulsed, and exploded into a million biting sparks of seething pleasure. Thick, hot, pulsing release. Yes.

He could feel Maximus slump slightly against the binding chains. Could hear the groan of defeated pleasure as he gasps to fill his near deprived lungs with air. Resting his head against the firm abdomen before him, he slowly gathers together his wits, and his courage. Looking upwards, he studies his general's face, the closed eyes, and bowed head. This warrior was his now, and he would not waste this newly found power.

Rising slowly, he never takes his eyes from Maximus' pensive face. A face he has loved well for too long. He has his key, and now he will use it.

His voice is remarkably calm, steady as he speaks, "I offered you my hand once, Maximus. Now, I offer it again. Take it now. For your sake, and for Lucius'."

The offer is made.

Fin - for now...?

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