In the ages of old, indeed, were there many centurion and legionaries who fought unceasing with every fiber of their beings. As daily training fortified their iron-hard bodies, and they formed the pure grit for which they are best known, a different kind of ache grew within.
Not merely the ache of muscle but of yearning. A longing for a brief respite. A deep chasm of emptiness that could only be filled with affection.
In many ways these men shared the sweat dripping from their brows, their frames filling with both the warmth of stretched limbs and the rare satisfaction of a pleasantly spent body.
The calloused hands of some men fiercely gripped the handles of their blades as readily as they would stroke the bare back of their quietly needy compatriots while alone in their barracks.
And truly, who can fault a man for his passions?
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