Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/807183.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Spartacus_Series_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Agron/Nasir, Nasir/OMC
  Character:
      Nasir_(Spartacus), Agron_(Spartacus)
  Series:
      Part 1 of Five_Ways_Nagron's_First_Time_Might_Have_Gone
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-17 Words: 1204
****** Faustus ******
by betterrecieved
Summary
     Ficlet. One of the ways Nagron's first time might have gone.
It has taken years for Nasir to tell Agron this, but he has always supposed:
‘Does not Agron already know?’ 
It is not his last fear, for his love for Agron is entwined with hopes fragile
as glass, brittle as sword forged of impure metal.
Yet it is one of his fears, that perhaps Agron’s love will diminish when he
knows for certain:
First time with Agron was not first time clenched in bowed-back ecstasy,
stretched beyond belief by overly-endowed cock of beloved man.
Of course Agron noted how Nasir’s hands grabbed and squeezed and pulled and
cock-stroked, how he was not afraid, not until crucial moment when he thought
he would die of Agron’s cock which never stopped growing in his hand until just
before it breached him.
“Was he…better?”  Agron asks.  Lying beside Nasir, his voice is light, his
hands gentle as they stroke Nasir’s arm.  But his eyes glow with thunder in dim
candlelight.
Nasir, now long experienced at dealing with Agron’s silent brewing storms,
chooses his words carefully, without seeming to choose: 
Nasir is just turned seventeen and so bored of fucking dominus that he can lie
there being fucked, can snap his hips in expected rhythm in his sleep.   
Occasionally he does fuck in his sleep, until Chadara coughs pointedly and
Nasir jerks awake, quick as any slave thinking on his back or his feet.
“Apologies.  I lost myself in pleasure of your touch, dominus.” Then Nasir
concentrates on finding his own climax that is like small unsatisfying sneeze -
dominus in his vanity would have Nasir find release.
Then Dominus, ever in competition with neighbors, begins construction of new
addition to villa. 
Strong, experienced craftsmen are in short supply, and dominus must hire from
faraway villa.
Nasir hates perpetual layer of dust which finds its way into every crack and
crevice within house, hates constant noise of bashing stones, groaning carts,
cracking axe.
One day as he walks through courtyard scowling at dirty workmen, he looks up
into glowing tan face and is in love.
Faustus is nineteen, his mood ever brooding, intense young man full of darkness
in word and deed.  Men twice Faustus’ age speak to him not as boy but as man. 
Yet Faustus’ face brightens in Nasir’s presence, while Nasir finds excuse after
excuse to enter courtyard.
He harangues stooped gardener into pruning rosebushes into increasingly
geometric forms.
He stands in entryway with constantly whisking broom in hand until dominus
assures him that he need not tire himself out with Sisyphean task of clearing
ever-deepening coating of dust.
“Do you not love dates, dominus?  I will procure you finest fruits from nearby
marketplace.”  And Nasir, knowing dominus’ weakness, does not even wait for an
answer.
He has never taken so long to walk back and forth across small villa
courtyard. 
He leans his head back, looking up and up and loving this expensive specimen of
handsome blond-haired man who can lift stones heavy as monuments, lay other men
flat with mere suggestion of fist.
They speak to each other in long, breathless glances, in mouths falling open to
say nothing, communicating so much.
In darkened storeroom - Chadara hovering outside prepared to scratch out
corneas of spying eyes - Nasir sees with loving palms.  Flexing biceps,
twitching pectorals, stomach so hard Nasir drives his fist into it as hard as
he can, to make Faustus laugh. 
He leans into safety of gentled, sighing bull of a man and because he is only
seventeen, because his brother - only other man he has ever loved - is fading
memory of protection and strength, because he has never been ten miles from
villa that he can clearly recall, and the world is all here in this dry, dark
room with him, he demands, demands, demands.
“Say you will not leave me.  Make vow.”
Faustus’ hands drag across his thin chest, stroke down his flat belly. 
Knuckles follow line of Nasir’s spine and he melts into Faustus’ touch that is
delicate as bones of curved-clawed raptor, careful as teeth of lion grasping
cub. 
Nasir has only lain with one woman, and that under duress, feeling ungainly and
tight in his skin.   Unlike with Chadara, in arms of Faustus he is just perfect
size, fitting smoothly into dip between Faustus’ hard pectorals, curving into
shallow of hard shoulder to let his head loll comfortably back.
Nasir lingers, savors for last his first willing touch to a man’s hardened
flesh, though dominus’s voice may very well soon be calling, “Tiberius!”
“No, he was not better.  He was not bigger, I assure you, before query passes
your lips.” Nasir smiles to himself at Agron’s guilty look.  “He was after all
only a boy, and I had not yet been taken by a man of skill when first you and I
lay together.  You fuck as a god.  There, I admit it.”
“He did not make promise to you.”  Agron strokes his face, and Nasir’s lip
begins to quiver.  “Had he made promise and kept it, would you now lie in his
arms?”
Nasir has been trapped in dark corners before, by drunken house-guests of
dominus, by soldiers passing through city openly appraising his form, by
leering men of all descriptions.
“He could not fucking promise,” Nasir bites out. He blinks, surprised at
himself.  When he speaks again he is marginally calmer. “He trusted nobody
within Rome, and had no means to spirit me away.  Anyway, stone structure
collapsed, crushing him, and he is dead. That is all.”
He does not mean to cry, for how must he appear to Agron, most jealous, most
possessive of men?  He cannot say: “No, I did not love that man.” 
Gods, how he loved that man.  
He can say this: “You hold all of my heart, Agron.  All of it.”
But Agron only wipes his cheeks dry with his calloused thumbs. “You loved him.”
 ”I would not lie with man I did not love.”   Try as he might, he cannot slip
indignantly from Agron’s hold like offended feline; Agron’s arms are
inescapable.
“I know it.  I knew it.  Apologies.” When Agron kisses him, short sob erupts
from Nasir and Agron swallows it down.  
To think of that horrible time when he could not be certain of Agron’s regard
or Agron’s fate…He does not think of it at all, if he can help it.   And
thinking also of Faustus heightens emotion to unbearable level. 
This was once also secret of Nasir’s, but Agron knows this well: Nasir does not
like to think of past, if he can avoid it.   What is use of memories, once
faded and relieved of sharp edges, thrown crisp against backdrop of clarity?
What is memory but pain?  Agron is here beside him, this is all he knows and
all he need know.
“I meant only…your heart is sizable enough for both,” Agron adds thoughtfully.
“You are both the same man,” Nasir smiles. “He was the practice, you are the
test.”
Agron yanks his ponytail hard. 
Nasir punches him in stomach with all of his hard-earned muscle behind blow.
Agron laughs.
Nasir realizes belatedly that there was nothing for him to confess to, nothing
at all.  First time with Agron was first time.
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