Prompt Fill: Spartacus/Sura


Prompt fill for hellcas

There are still nights that he dreams about her. Not as he found her, he dreams about that every night, but as she was. Before the war. 

She was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, not even the most beautiful he’d ever lain with. But she was clever and sharp and unafraid. It was these things that had turned his eye to her the first time, the shepard’s  daughter some said had dreams of the future. 

Smiles and laughter had come easy to her. She seemed to find joy in everything. There now question that she had made him a better man. She still was, the memory of her, with her face turned suddenly hard, the way it had when he had done something uncalled for. He was a warrior, she had always known that, but she said their was a fine line between a fighter and an animal. Even these days she kept him from crossing it.

There were some mornings where he would wake from such pleasant dreams and the tears would touch him, that pain would hold him so firmly he wasn’t sure he could even stand under the weight of it. But again, it was her that lifted him to his feet, urging him to do what must be done. His time on this earth was growing shorter, he could sense it. Each day could be his last. And there work still ahead of them, a great deal. The touch of her hands would keep him on the path, and he knew when his time came she would be there to greet him once again.

agrafitejungle:

Top 5 - Saddest moments in Spartacus: Blood and Sand

#3: Barca’s and Pietros’ deaths (1x06 Delicate things & 1x07 Great and Unfortunate Things)

Barca and Pietros are looking forward to their life together outside of the ludus. When Ashur overhears Barca tell Pietros that he has not killed Ovidius’ young son despite Batiatus’ orders, he sees a way out of paying Barca the money he owes him and comes up with a plan to make the news reach the lanista. Confronted about it, Barca admits he only lied to Pietros to keep his partner’s mind at ease; but this, added up to his wishes to purchase his and Pietros’ freedom and leave, convince Batiatus of betrayal and he orders his guards to kill the gladiator. Pietros is later told that Barca could not afford freeing both of them and has left him behind. Haunted by these thoughts, and abused physically and sexually by Gnaeus now that Barca is not there to protect him, Pietros hangs himself and ends his life.

So after watching the whole series of Spartacus again, I would really like to write a cannon AU where these two somehow live. But things will be tricky, trying to make the whole thing work. Barca and Pietros’s deaths served as a huge part of the story because of Barca’s connection to Oenomaus and Spartacus reaction to Pietros’s suicide. They moved the rebellion forward, in a way. Their deaths had purpose. So how do you achieve those ends, without either one ending up dead? Which one of my fellow sparty-nerds wants to discuss? Help me out here peeps.

(Source: padapadasomething, via givemeunicorns)

PROMTPATHON!


Hey all! Sorry I haven’t been around for a while! I have been having some SERIOUS writer’s block lately. So me and my darling Phoenixtalon are having an epic promptathon over on our writing blogs! So if you lot would be so kind, I would LOVE to get some prompts! It can honestly be about anything, we just both really need some to get our write on right now! I’ll be posting the fills there as well as on here. And who knows, maybe it will be the spark I need to finish some smutty Nagron fics ! *winkwink*

So if you guys would be SO super awesome as to send prompts our way, we’d love you forever! 

Cicatrix


I’m dedicating this plot bunny to dangerousjobsforgirls, because she gave me the most awesome prompt a while back that has evolved into a chapter fic about Nasir’s past. I am still working on said fic, so I hope she will forgive me for taking ungodly long :D

Also, this is just for fun. I don’t own anything. Standard disclaimer achieved.

~~~~~~~~~~

Calloused hands brushed over his skin, mapping the curve his shoulder, the length of his arm. Nasir sighed contently, body relaxing under the touch. The deep ache in his side was fading under the weight of the medicus’s foul concoctions. Soon his eyes would grow heavy, he knew, but he did not want to sleep this night, not with this man so near him, in better form than any had dared hope for. The burning of the arena had seemed the plan of a mad man, and the long wait had brought only nightmares for the former body slave. That the stifling thought that their first kiss, gentle and chaste, would be the only kiss he would ever share with the handsome gladiator.

It seemed Agron was of the same mind. A large, sword-calloused hand came to rest on Nasir’s abdomen, over his bandages, but carefully distant from the days old wound they covered.

“You could have died,” the gladiator said quietly, his blue-green eyes watching Nasir intently.

The Syrian’s lips turned up in a tired smile.

“Says the man fresh from burning down Roman arenas,” he offered and Agron rewarded him with a wry grin.

“Still,” the larger man pressed, “My blade should have spilt the blood of that Roman fuck before he had chance to lay hand upon you. I should never have suggested we split up.”

“He did not lay hand, but blade,” Nasir pointed out, his expression stern, reaching up to trace the curve of the German’s jaw with the backs of his fingers,  “do not take guilt and pain to heart. I went because I wanted to, I fought because I chose to. I did what I thought was right, as did you. This is war, some blood must be spilt. I would have it be mine rather than that of dear friend. The same as you, same as any of the brotherhood.”

Agron opened his mouth as if to argue but seemed to think better of it. In many ways, Nasir had proven himself to be every bit the wild little dog Agron had first thought him to be. Once the boy had made up his mind, he would stand the ground for all it was worth.

The blue-green eyes rested on the bandages again.

“You are branded with fire as much as the rest of us. Spartacus spoke of your courage, Naevia and Mira as well. You earned the mark,” the German relented with a sigh, but there was still pain in his eyes, “But it is still not a scar I would have you bear, the reminder of life nearly lost.”

The rough fingers traced the line of the darker man’s collar bone. The Syrian caught the other’s gaze, letting his own hand come to rest against the upraised flesh on Agron’s chest.

“One of many already owned, one of many more to come,” he said.

Agron nodded, taking the hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the freshly calloused palm.

“I would know the story of all.”

Nasir smiled.

“As I would know yours. Which story would you hear first?”

Agron’s eyes roved Nasir’s body, not lustful or hungry in the way that Nasir had seen such gazes turned on him all his life. There was warmth and caring there, and quiet observance, as if the German were skimming words of a letter often read and reread.

“This one,” he said finally, his thumb stroking over the smooth path of flesh that cut through Nasir’s brow.

The former slave leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh escaped him as his eyes slipped closed. That memory was still sharp and clear after all these years, came to mind far more often than he cared for.

“The first my Dominus ever gave me,” he said.

Agron let out a low sound, something akin to a growl.

“Would that I had killed the Roman fuck myself,” he snarled, his anger cast at ghosts.

“It was many years past. I was little more than a child when I was purchased by the man.”

Agron quirked an eyebrow.

“ I thought you were very small when that brought you from your homeland?”

Nasir nodded, moving a fraction closer to the other man, letting his arm drape over the German’s waist, fingers tracing the smooth line of Agron’s spine.

“I was. But Flavius was not my first domnius. When I was a child, my brother and I served women named Antonia. She was a good domina, always kind to her servants, and she doted on us children. Her own son had died young, and she eased the ache by rescuing children from the block, bringing them up in her home, to serve her family. Her husband, our domnius in those days, was a good man. He loved his wife, indulged her whims, and was good to us in his own right.”

Nasir could still picture her face, strong and proud, black hair streaked with iron. He could not bring himself to hate her, despite the freedom he had gained. She had been firm but kind, always just, never raised a hand to them in anger. As often as not, her touches and words had been kind. She was the closest thing to a mother he could remember. The thought of her brought pang of lose.

Agron must have seen the change in his face.

“How did you come into the Roman shit’s service,” he asked, his fingers brushing back a stray bit of hair from the Syrian’s brow.

“The Domina was ill most of her life. When she finally succumbed, her husband’s soul left with her, I think. He could not bear to look upon her things, and feel the lose of her. He sold everything, to anyone who would take them, just be rid of them. Her jewelry, her dresses, her books, her instruments…”

“And her slaves,” the German finished.

Nasir nodded.

“I was sold the dominus who’s house I was liberated from.”

“And your brother?”

Nasir’s eyes flickered closed for a moment, trying to recall the sharp, dark face that had brought him so much comfort as a child, who’s rare smiles he would have given the world for.

“I don’t know,” he relented, after a time.

“The dominus was not like the family I had served before. In the house of Galius, good behavior was rewarded, but punishment for disobedience was just. We were never struck in anger. The rules of the house of Flavius were very different.”

Nasir’s limbs were growing heavy and he knew that sleep would come soon, whether he wanted to or not. He would not leave the story unfinished, or else the ending would find him in his dreams.

“I had only been there a few days. It had been a hard summer, very dry. The dominus asked for water, but there was none, so I brought him wine. When I told him such, he struck me, with the back of his hand. I stumbled and dropped the jug, he hit me again. This time, I fell. My head struck the corner of a table. I don’t remember much after that, until I woke in my cell. Later, he punished me for that too.”

Nasir swallowed hard, trying not to see the faces that came so clearly to mind. Faces of friends gone before their time, faces of enemies who’s fates he still kept silent. It was not the whole of the story, but enough for now.

Agron’s fingers brushed the scar again.

“Would that I had sent the fuck to afterlife,” he growled.

Naisr leaned into the touch, his eyes were growing heavy as his limbs now.

“Scars are lessons, reminders of battles fought, lest we forget,” he murmured. They were words told to him long ago but he could not seem to conjure the face that had fist spoken them, a friend long gone.

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close. He settled into the welcome warmth of the German’s chest and surrendered to sleep.

A Graphite Jungle: “I’ve never been you, Nasir,” Hadi said, though he didn’t look up....


agrafitejungle:

“I’ve never been you, Nasir,” Hadi said, though he didn’t look up. There was a cold and distant edge to his voice and it rattled the syrian, straight down to his bones. This was not the brother he remembered. Hadi had always been quiet, removed. He’d always been the big brother, the strength…

(Source: givemeunicorns)

fuckingsyrian:

This is an image prompt for agrafitejungle
katalepsja:

bachs:

Who is he

His name is Nathan Saludez


The boy was beautiful, Agron would not deny it. Soft dark skin, so much like Nasir’s, yet so different. I was not hard to see why the brothel’s patron’s were so enamored with him. The dance was slow, sensuous, the curves of the youth’s body rippling beneath the layers of fabric. One Roman shit licked his lips and the german frowned. They saw only this poor creature’s beauty, they didn’t see the deadness in his eyes. 
Agron heard the soft exhalation of breath, from the figure at his side. He shifted his eyes to Nasir and was struck by the look of pain and disbelief in the Syrain’s eyes. He was pale, as if he had seen a ghost.
The german leaned into his lover’s body.
"What is it," he whispered, eyes moving bak to the dancing boy. The music was slowing. Money was exchanging hands.
"He’s my brother," the Syrian breathed, the ache sharp in his voice.

tbc perhaps :)

fuckingsyrian:

This is an image prompt for agrafitejungle

katalepsja:

bachs:

Who is he

His name is Nathan Saludez

The boy was beautiful, Agron would not deny it. Soft dark skin, so much like Nasir’s, yet so different. I was not hard to see why the brothel’s patron’s were so enamored with him. The dance was slow, sensuous, the curves of the youth’s body rippling beneath the layers of fabric. One Roman shit licked his lips and the german frowned. They saw only this poor creature’s beauty, they didn’t see the deadness in his eyes. 

Agron heard the soft exhalation of breath, from the figure at his side. He shifted his eyes to Nasir and was struck by the look of pain and disbelief in the Syrain’s eyes. He was pale, as if he had seen a ghost.

The german leaned into his lover’s body.

"What is it," he whispered, eyes moving bak to the dancing boy. The music was slowing. Money was exchanging hands.

"He’s my brother," the Syrian breathed, the ache sharp in his voice.

tbc perhaps :)

(Source: lesliaisonerotiques)

Writing prompts


agrafitejungle:

can I has some? I promise I will actually do them this time :D

(Source: givemeunicorns)

Fic: From One Who Was There, Agron/Nasir


veronicaluv:

Third party POV. Approx 2,500 WC, Agron/Nasir, adult for language.

Someone watches from the shadows.

From One Who Was There

Thanks!

(via fuckingsyrian)