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Wrath: strong, stern, or fierce anger; deeply resentful indignation.
Lanius would let no one know of the ferocity with which his heart demanded he protect her. When fiends threatened to rip her open, or when ferals emerged from the darkness, snarling and biting, his vision was a sea of red. The anger that fuelled his blows was unstoppable, his blade slashing through skin and bone until all lay dead around him, except for the Courier, of course. The Legate found it entirely exhausting, yet the way his blood cooled at last when he saw she was unharmed was a pleasure like no other.
Once, before she had stopped asking him to escort her to the Strip, he had killed a man for making her uncomfortable. His Courier, who endured hands and lips and teeth on her skin regularly, turned as quickly as though she'd heard the crack of a rifle too close for comfort when one of the Chairmen had smacked her behind. With her eyes wide and mouth open in shock, it took barely a second for the anger, that had not been present before, to boil over within Lanius. Like bubbles spilling over the lip of a bottle of Sunset Sasparilla that had been shaken too much, he felt his control snap and in its place, a raging bull was left behind.
In his head, it happened slowly. Lanius reached out, approaching from behind. Before he made contact, the Courier's dark eyes shifted from the Chairman to him, dread and uncertainty blowing her pupils wide. He was entirely unpredictable in this state, a wild boar with no fences or whips to keep him in check. Before the Chairman realised Lanius was behind him it was already too late. With a simple, practiced move, the Legate twisted his neck, broke it cleanly and quickly. The sound, a crack like snapping wood, echoed sickeningly throughout the Casino and a heavy silence descended upon them. The odd gasp or mutter of shock was lost to the pounding blood in his ears, but Lanius cared not what the profligates thought. All that mattered was that the Courier took it in her stride, told the head Chairman to consider an offer she had made, (information for caps) and turned to leave.
Just before they reached the double doors, she gave Lanius' hand a squeeze. His proximity was so familiar that she did not even have to look to know where he was.
Lanius had spurned love, opting for wrath, instead.
Envy: a feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another's advantages, success, possessions, etc.
The loyalty of the desert fox was unwavering. If the mighty Caesar gave a command, Vulpes followed it to the letter.
As did the Courier, he noticed. This was pleasing. Not only did she follow orders given by Caesar, but by himself, too. Most could only dream of having that kind of power; one of the most dangerous people in the Mojave, willing to slaughter on command. It wasn't long before the Courier began to speak with him almost every day, attentive and obedient. His Lord would thank him for keeping the woman loyal, so Vulpes took advantage of her servile attitude, her need to hear his voice.
When he invited her into his tent the first time, he had not intended to feel for her, only to do what was necessary. She was no fool; his intentions would not have evaded her. After all, why else would Vulpes be inviting another into his most personal of spaces? When he undressed her, he noticed the goosebumps that rose up along her arms when he spoke.
The Courier lay beneath him, let him do as he wished. What he felt went beyond base pleasure. Vulpes found himself listening intently to her rapid breathing, the airy moans that left her lips and her pulse hammering against his ear as he dipped to kiss her neck and shoulder. Her nails had dug into his back, beads of sweat forming on her brow as she begged him to say something, anything because she was so, so close. He should have closed a hand around her throat, stopped her talking to let her know who was really in charge, but he could not. Vulpes whispered all manner of possessive promises, dirty thrills that made her reach a climax shortly after.
Meetings like those became a regular occurrence. So regular, in fact, that the Courier sometimes asked him to accompany her on long journeys. It did not matter whether they found a dilapidated shack to sleep in or simply lay out their bed rolls in a strategic position; he liked to make her shiver, wanted to hear her cry his name and his alone. The way her eyes rolled back in her head, then came to a slow, dazed focus on his own, was something he craved. He was disinclined to share.
The Courier had but one fault, as Vulpes saw. She treated the slaves as though they were human, spoke to them with respect, smiled kindly if she needed something from Siri and always thanked her. They were beneath her. The Courier was an instrument of the Legion, a skilled killer. She should have been spending her evenings by Vulpes' side, not conversing with the slaves about her wounds and the weather.
It made him unbelievably jealous. To think that she would prefer the company of the lowest of the low to that of the best Frumentariius in the Legion was blasphemous. When he spied her laughing with a former farmer, a captured man put to work growing Siri's herbs, Vulpes' heart darkened and venom pulsed in his veins. The fox listened intently, needed to know what his Courier found so enrapturing, hiding behind the flaps of his tent and straining to hear clearly.
The slave made a comment about her hair, said it was lovely, silky and shiny. Vulpes knew that. The braid that she wore it in was his handiwork. He could still feel the soft strands between his fingers and smell the mutfruit scented shampoo she used. The Courier laughed once more, a pretty pink blush rising up her cheeks. Vulpes could stand it no longer.
By midday, he stood on the winding path leading to the Fort, looking up at the slave he had lashed to a cross. The anguish in his eyes brought Vulpes immense satisfaction. The Courier had been sent to clean out any stragglers at Camp Forlorn Hope and would likely not return for another day or so. Ample opportunity for the other slaves to heed this warning.
"You are worthless," Vulpes said. "Nothing more than a worm in the presence of predators. You will serve as a fine lesson to others. The Courier belongs to me, to the Legion." He curled long and slender fingers around the jaw of the slave to force their eyes to meet. "Be sure to tell the others as they pass; you are here because you took liberties you were not permitted to. You are beneath the Courier. Speaking with her so cordially is a privilege well beyond your station. Spare the other filthy degenerates of your mistakes and give them this warning."
With that, he turned on his heels and left for Caesar's tent, the envy still festering in his gut. None would have what he did. He would crucify them all before anyone else could make the Courier laugh. Vulpes would make certain of it.
Pride: a high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.
Silus was above the Courier in every way. She might have Caesar fooled, but the Centurion knew she was little more than a profligate looking to muscle in on the power struggle in the Mojave. She had taken a chance with the Legion and come out on top, but that did not mean she was better than him.
Silus had years of service, countless kills under his belt and suddenly, just because this woman could follow orders, she was granted privileges far beyond her station? They would see soon enough. The fools who believed her obedience would continue were far inferior to Silus. He knew this, but his men treated him with respect, called him 'sir', knew that he was the authority with the superior intellect. The Courier did not.
She strode past him one day without even a trace of acknowledgement. It infuriated him, so he grasped her arm and pulled her into one of the stone buildings in Cottonwood Cove. She gasped in surprise and it only made him feel more powerful, keeping a firm hold of her forearms as he pushed her against the wall. The door banged shut behind them, leaving them alone, unheard in the relative darkness of the flickering bare light bulbs.
"When you pass me," he began, voice dangerously low. "You will address me appropriately, you little whore."
Silus' blood boiled when the Courier tilted her head and grinned. "I really want to kiss you, Silus..." she said.
Apparently, his words had the opposite effect to what he wanted. On the contrary, she seemed to be rather flushed, tongue darting out to moisten her lip and eyes wide and hazy with lust. In that moment, Silus had to admit to himself that he wanted to kiss her, too.
He would not. She was beneath him and did not deserve rewards for blatant insubordination. She was no legionary, but she still served the Legion and so a hierarchy must be established before the Courier got the wrong idea about who was really in charge.
"When you realise your place, then I might consider giving you what you want," he said, releasing her and stepping back to regain a little dignity.
She scowled bitterly. "What makes you think you're better than me?" she asked. "I've killed a whole nest of Deathclaws singlehandedly, stopped a bunch of crazy brain-bots from invading the Mojave and got you released from NCR custody."
He glared down at her, closing his hand around her throat. She didn't even flinch. "I've been killing Supermutants and gutting wastrels like you since before your mother spread her legs," he said. "I am superior, and I'll prove it."
"Fine," she agreed after he released her. "There's a platoon of Rangers set to cross the Dry Lake today. There's no way you're going to kill more than me."
"I'm not going to rise to your petty challenges."
She shrugged and he felt the urge to snap her neck, right then and there. He refrained, for that would be giving in to her taunts. "Suit yourself, Silus. Just try to prove you're better than me. I dare you."
With that challenge, she left Silus seething. No. No, he would not let her get the better of him. She was nothing. The Centurion would not displease Caesar by neglecting his duties to best her in combat. He wanted to, but as he straightened his shirt on the way out of the building, it was with a smirk he thought he didn't have to. He already knew he could pass her every test. Why waste time even thinking on the matter when the results would be obvious?
There was no legionary better than Silus. He did not need to prove it. The Courier would learn. Now, he just needed to fabricate a way to teach her that lesson.
Sloth: habitual disinclination to exertion; indolence; laziness.
Relaxation was not in the vocabulary of the Praetorian commander. Every day brought more paperwork, fresh reports and new recruits in need of training and discipline. Lucius had little time for much else, although when the Courier had asked to learn the Legion Assault from an experienced tutor, he had acquiesced.
"This move is difficult," he explained, "and I am an unforgiving teacher, but if you are ready, we can begin."
When showing the Courier how to initiate the correct stance, he stood behind her, noticed for the first time that she was reasonably muscular as he positioned her arms. She listened as he taught her the basics; the initial leap was just as important to execute properly as the attack itself, to build the necessary momentum. They worked on improving this, first. The Courier was persistent. Every time she made a mistake, she would try again with renewed vigour. Lucius watched as she battered the already worn training dummy, standing and observing her technique, the sweat on her brow and her pink cheeks. He stood in silence until he noticed his legs aching.
Truthfully, the Courier had mastered the Legion Assault fifteen minutes before he finally stopped her. Despite her unwavering effort, she looked exhausted, reaching for her hip flask and taking a long drink. With her head tilted skywards, Lucius could see the slender column of her throat as she swallowed, glistening and blushing with exertion. Then it was over. She screwed the cap back onto her canteen and a small smile graced her smooth, soft lips.
"You're always working so hard, Lucius," she said quietly, stepping an inch closer. "I could help you relax a little, if you want. You look like you need it."
He did not have the time to relax. As attractive as those fluttering eyelashes were, there were training reports to read, recommendations to write for the commanders in charge of the young legionaries, a whole host of duties that could not, should not be avoided at any cost.
"Very well," Lucius said, internally berating himself for giving in. "Follow close and my guards will leave you alone."
The Courier kept within touching distance, let Lucius lead her to his tent. The wad of papers on his desk only served to remind him of this transgression, but before he had the time to regain his sense of responsibility, she knelt at his feet with another reassuring smile. She suggested he sit down to make it more comfortable, so he perched on the edge of his bed and watched as she removed his belt.
There was nothing this woman could do to make him dislike her. She was beautiful and dangerous as well as incredibly skilled with her lips and tongue. His hips bucked, the thought of sitting like a useless animal while she brought him to peak an unpleasant one.
After a moment of curses and shallow fucking her pretty mouth, she released him and his gaze snapped forward, wild and frustrated in equal measure.
"Lie back and relax," the Courier advised. "Let me do the work. You deserve a break."
Reluctantly, he did so, settling back against his mattress, arms supporting his head as she took the entirety of his member into her mouth. Lucius made an effort to breathe steadily, to close his eyes and simply do nothing. It was almost alien to him, having spent most of his living memory doing something worthwhile, keeping busy in the name of duty. Play did not come easy to Lucius, but with the Courier's long, slow licks, he eventually fell into a state of euphoric bliss.
He had once heard that idle hands do the Devil's work, so Lucius threaded a few fingers through the Courier's hair to negate at least some of his idleness.
Greed: excessive or rapacious desire, especially for wealth or possessions.
This station was his. The dilapidated houses, the supplies in the tents, the Courier who crossed the Cove so often to take the barge up the river - all of it was his. Especially the last one. It mattered not to Aurelius whether she knew it or not, but if not, then she soon would. Like hell the Centurion would let anyone claim an inch of what he had fought so hard to get.
When he spied the Courier walking down the hill past some of the crucified Great Khans, it only strengthened his desire to have her all to himself. The way she strode with confidence and poise made him want to have her near all the time, to possess every inch of her like no man had before, or would ever do afterwards. Aurelius desired to keep her, a trinket to savour in the dark away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.
Ah, she even had a gift for him this time; three bloodied NCR dogtags she gave him, with a hopeful smile. The Courier liked collecting caps to buy ammunition and food, despite Caesar's orders that she was to have the same access to the aforementioned items as any other legionary. Usually, Aurelius would have tossed a bag of the clinking bottle caps her way and watched her leave, coveting that shapely behind, but not today.
He bid the Courier follow him and she obeyed fearlessly, just as he had anticipated. She was no coward, of this he could be certain. Leading her down the stairs from his post, they walked to the far end of the supply tents and came to a much larger, furnished one. Aurelius hardly used his personal tent, standing ever-vigilant on the largest brick building in the Cove, but he wanted this woman for himself. No one could see the Courier as he would, bare beneath him as he made her beg for her pleasure.
No sooner were they within sight of his bed than Aurelius pulled her to him. He only tore from her body what he needed to before pushing her against the bed and taking her. Pleasure coursed through him, rutting against her and listening to her fiercely rapid breathing and the occasional gasp. The Centurion found his release as she clawed at the mattress, bucking back against him, determined to take her own pleasure. It was not enough. He wanted more, so he turned her over, ripped her shirt clean in two and pressed into her again. He went slower this time, seizing handfuls of her bare, warm flesh, pulse pounding in his ears. The Courier groaned beneath him, able to rock with him and wrap her arms around him.
Aurelius had been wrong in thinking he would be satisfied after that. He never wanted to stop, never wanted this pleasure to end and so, after they had barely been detached from each other for a few minutes, he took her again, on the floor this time. He moaned in her ear, thrust deeply into her womanhood and, only when they both lay side by side on the rug, staring up at the red cloth of his tent, was he somewhat relieved of the need to devour her. Aurelius didn't want to let her out of his sight. He would have carried on fucking her, if he'd had the energy, but it seemed as though he would have to be contented with holding her, for now. Touching, feeling, exploring every part of her, every scar, every mole. It was his. All his. No one else could have it.
Lust: an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body.
He could not forget her. From the moment the Courier had strolled past him for the first time smelling of gunpowder and agave, Antony could not shake the images of her from his mind. When she spoke to him, they spoke about Lupa and the other dogs. He watched the way her lips moved when she talked and imagined them upon his skin. Soon, he began to wonder what she looked like beneath her clothes, shapely hips and breasts pliant in his hands. He was curious about her body, about what would bring her pleasure and how she could give it to him.
At first, Antony only thought. For a few days, he was content with thinking, lying in his bed roll at night with Lupa warming his side, exploring sensuous imaginings; the Courier's budding nipples between his teeth, her lips around his length. He remembered her smell, transformed that memory into taste and touch in the dead of night and slept on it, letting nothing disturb him while he did so.
Then, after the Courier had spent a few minutes playfully trying to tug an old length of rope from Lupa's mouth one day, he was no longer happy just to think. Antony had seen strength and fearlessness in her wirey frame. He wanted her. It became so that sleep evaded him when the sinful thoughts invaded his mind. His cock began to stiffen to a painful hardness when he imagined the Courier on her hands and knees, completely bare with a collar around her neck. Not one of the slave collars. A nice leather one. It would be their little secret. When he lay on his stomach, he could not help rutting against the cloth, relieving the building pressure before it consumed him.
A week or so later, she started bringing treats for Lupa, little strips of leftover brahmin or bighorner meat that made the hound wag her tail whenever the two met. Antony was almost beside himself under the silver light of the moon that night, hand wrapped around his length and pumping furiously. In his mind's eye, the Courier had taken his cock to the back of her throat and made him come, so he rewarded her with the same courtesy, bent her over on all fours and wrung every last drop of pleasure from the experience, fingers always playing at the collar around her throat.
Antony craved pleasure. He did not want anyone else to give it to him except the Courier.
Gluttony: an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires.
Not all women were equally useless, in the eyes of the Legion Cursor. Take Courier Six, for example; she did not look like much, but her actions proved her to be very useful to the Legion, indeed. In fact, Lucullus had deemed her the only woman around the camp worth his time. He did not show it, ferrying her up and down the river with few words and even less eye contact. How to decide whether she was worthy of being a wife would be a different matter entirely. He would need confirmation that she appealed to him, clothes on or off. Lucullus would not tolerate blatant disobedience, although he wanted a woman stronger and more determined than the slaves.
In the end, there was but one option. Lucullus surprised her the next time she saw him, asked her to go to his tent once night fell and he was relieved until morning. The Courier did as he asked, showing obedience, a good sign. He requested that she remove her clothes. She hesitated a little, but complied, biting her lip and blushing under the red fabric of the tent. Yes, she did appeal to him; lean muscle, scars and hips well suited to her frame.
Purely for the sake of experimentation, he reached out, ran his hands along the sensuous curves and felt the goosebumps rise on her skin. He did not need to touch her further. That was sufficient enough to make him see that he wanted her, but he carried on regardless. When Lucullus looked her in the eye, she bit her lip, long eyelashes flitting as she blinked.
He did not need to get any closer, to feel the ridges down her spine and to see what she smelled like. He did it, anyway. He put a lot of focus into memorising the shape of her hips, the dip just above and how soft and pliant she was in his hands. In the back of his mind, thoughts lingered about how those hips would be good for bearing his children. They would be the perfect balance of strong and obedient, like her. Like both of them, he realised as he pressed an experimental kiss to her lips.
This exploration of her body had already gone far enough, but he did not feel the need to stop himself. He took all he could and more, burying a hand in her hair and allowing her to grasp his shoulders when he left bruises along her throat. He kissed and sucked her collarbone, moving from one side to the other, slowly. He moved higher after that, making marks that would be difficult to conceal beneath her ear and on the slender column of her throat.
There was no need to go as far as that, but he did. Call him a glutton, but he liked it, no matter the loss of his carefully constructed self-control. The Courier did not even bother to hide the bruises, instead throwing her clothes back on when he said she could before kissing his cheek and leaving.
He'd go much further, next time.