Drabble round-up

Apparently I have done a shitload of drabbles recently and not bothered cross-posting, so I'm just rounding up the lot.

Title: The Paths We Never Trod
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Spartacus, various
Word Count: 1200 (12 drabbles)
Rating: Gen
Warnings: Major character death.
Summary: Twelve characters I wished we could have kept around for longer or under different circumstances, to see where they ended up instead.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Spartacus. Clearly I’ve made the wrong life choices.

The Paths We Never Trod @ AO3

The Paths We Never Trod


He’s left behind when Batiatus buys Dagan for his ludus. Ashur begged to be bought as well, arguing his skills with figures and languages, but the skinny shit just laughed. “A slave who’d negotiate his own purchase? Fuck off.”

Slumped in his chains, Ashur doesn’t notice the tall Roman watching him until he approaches. “You speak Syrian?”

Ashur nods hopelessly. “Greek, too. Some Egyptian.”

The man studies him keenly as if he sees more than a mediocre slave for an insulting price. Eventually, he tosses the trader a purse. “Send him to the house of Crassus. He may prove useful.”


Other slaves and her own experience have taught her never to sleep lightly. When Aulus leans over her in the darkness of the wagon, she kicks him in the groin and takes his knife. He dies gurgling.

It’s easy to pull his hood over her head and take the reins; easy to roll into Batiatus’s courtyard, spot her shorn husband and cry out. He leaps aboard; she hauls the team around. They cling together even as his anguished eyes turn back towards the ludus and those he leaves behind.

“I wonder…”

“Don’t,” Sura cuts him off. “We are free now.”


Despite the late hour, Dagan raises no complaint when Spartacus calls for his assistance. Apparently one of the villa’s freed slaves has tried to kill him. “Syrian,” Spartacus says, nodding towards the captive. “Perhaps he may tell you more than me.”

Dagan glares at the slave’s bowed head. “Your name,” he rumbles, in Syrian. “Do you remember it?”

At the sound of his voice, the boy lifts his head suddenly, frowning. Wide dark eyes. A stubborn tilt to his chin, achingly familiar.

“Nasir?” Dagan whispers, thunderstruck. When the boy nods slowly, Dagan feels his heart crack open. “Brother, it’s me.”


She’s woken before dawn by Mira and Nasir. Mira looks uneasy, but her oldest friend smiles as he offers her a sword. “We’ve failed in providing useful guidance. Choose fighting style.”

It turns out she’s rubbish at weapons, but no one can find her when she hides. Spartacus puts her on scouting duty. She sneaks through the barren woods until she knows them inside out; draws up precise maps for her reports.

When she finds the ballistae depot, she just has time to blow the warning horn before the guard cuts her down. Chadara grins her triumph as she falls.


In fevered healing dreams, she imagines Spartacus by her side, but his face brings only disappointment. She turns from it.

Her chest is agony; the hands dressing her wound distinctly ungentle. Forcing her gummy eyelids open, Mira blinks into Saxa’s grim face.

Mira coughs. “Water?” Saxa’s strong arm supports her head while she drinks. Her other hand rests lightly atop her bandage. She says something in her guttural tongue.

Agron’s voice comes from nearby. “She says your heart’s too stubborn and your tits too nice to die.”

Mira laughs, though it hurts. She takes Saxa’s grin with her into sleep.


Gannicus and Crixus carry him, torn, but still alive, from the slopes of Vesuvius to Pietros,. He leaves behind the shattered ruin of the Egyptian.

Bloodied himself, Pietros cradles Barca’s head in his lap. Gannicus departs quickly, but Crixus lingers. Barca is glad for that.

The three of them crouch on a hill near the abandoned temple. Barca concentrates on breathing, and on Pietros’s face. He looks fierce and broken and relentlessly lovely. Barca doesn’t have the breath to say, Apologies.

A flock of birds passes far overheard, crying harshly into the morning sun. Barca smiles, and flies with them.


She names him Remus because he’ll be raised among wolves. The rebels don’t appreciate the honour as they should, but then most of them are ignorant of the founding myth of Rome. Spartacus seems troubled when she tells it, but he holds the child with a look of stunned, agonised joy.

It’s difficult to redefine herself among enemies, but Ilithyia has always welcomed challenge. There is a raw freedom here that she is determined to claim.

She’s washing at a brook when the Roman soldiers chance upon her. Ilithyia rises, meaning to explain. The spear hits before she can speak.

Gaia / Lucretia

Gaia arrives from Rome with a fat purse and a letter from her newest doddering husband, forcing Glaber to relinquish his claim upon Lucretia. Gaia holds her close on the journey back. “Give rest to unsettled mind,” she whispers. “There are venues beyond vengeance.”

Lucretia has trouble believing it; trouble letting go of the ghost-child she was going to present to Quintus. But Rome glitters with promise, and Gaia’s company is invigorating. They fuck in the bath, the atrium, the marital bed. “Lucretia,” Gaia gasps into her mouth, as though her name by itself held meaning. “Live.”

So she does.


After the decimation, Crassus looks at Sabinus with eyes reddened but composed. “I trust you know he would forever honour you, had you stood in his stead.”

Sabinus nods numbly. Two nights ago, Tiberius cried out in hoarse passion in his arms; today, he lies dead by those same hands. The man before him responsible.


That night, he walks unarmed towards the rebels’ camp, until scouts intercept him. Sabinus lifts his hands. “I’m called Sabinus. I come to join your cause.”

The scouts’ leader bares his teeth in a disarming smile. “I’m called Castus, pretty boy. Prove truth of claim.”


He faces Caesar under the cold winter sun, both breathing hard. Varro has long lost sight of his brothers in the melee, but recalls the last words Spartacus spoke to him. If Rome brought forth even one such as you, there is yet hope, my brother.

Caesar bares bloodied teeth at him. “You taint the name of Rome, traitor.”

Varro laughs, even though it reopens his wounds and sets him coughing. “Funny. I thought the same of you.”

Swords clash. Flesh parts. He sees her, the Eternal City, shimmering in the distance as he falls.

Prevail, he thinks, defying hope.


There’s only one person Naevia would let near her, that first night after she returned, cradling Crixus’s head. They curled together in Diona’s tent, sharing no words, for there are no words left in all the world.

Come morning, they arm together, tightening each other’s straps and buckles. Watching Gannicus and his contingent ride off, they share a faint smile. They used to giggle about him, once upon a lifetime. Diona flexes her sword arm experimentally. She has no time for giggles now.

Death finds them close together, fingers clasped in the blood-smeared dirt. Their foreheads touch. The clamour fades.


Nobody talks much as they cross the Alps. The sunsets are stunning, and the air so pure it hurts to breathe. Pietros helps with the younger children, because they don’t ask questions. Children are easy.

Sometimes, Nasir walks beside him. He doesn’t ask questions either, because Nasir is like that. Comfort without obligation.

At night, Pietros cries.

He’s up early one morning, squinting his eyes against the pale rose of sunrise and white peaks, when a bedraggled jackdaw lands near him. When Pietros tosses it his morning bread, it hops closer, cawing insolent thanks.

That’s the first time he smiles.

Title: A Warrior's Hands
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Spartacus; Agron/Nasir (Agron POV)
Word Count: 300 (triple drabble)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Angst, PTSD. (I feel kinda daft warning for either on this show, surely it's a given).
Summary: These days, his enemies and friends are gone, and Agron is angry mostly at his own body: especially his hands that take too long to remember what they are, why they need to be strong.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Spartacus. Sobbity and woe!

A Warrior's Hands @ AO3

When Agron first touches Nasir, it’s magic: half-tentative, half-longing and all promise. A brush in passing here, a deliberate direction in training there, and his fingertips prickle as if touched by flame. There’s a moment, early on, when he takes Nasir’s wrist to guide a sword thrust, and he’s useless for the rest of the day, his palm and fingers tingling.

He holds back as long as he can, but they don’t live in times of caution. When he cups his hand around Nasir’s cheek to kiss him for the first time, Agron’s hand is steady, though his heart pounds.


He loves touching Nasir in the secure knowledge that his hands are wanted; craved, even. He loves driving him mad with the deliberate tease of calloused fingertips against his dripping cock; the tight, warm caress of strong palms cupping Nasir’s balls, slick fingers teasing at his entrance. He loves gripping Nasir’s hips while he takes him hard; loves rolling Nasir’s peaked nipples between his fingers; loves fisting his own cock while Nasir fucks him.

More than anything, he loves smoothing his hands down Nasir’s sides afterwards, following the contours of his heaving, breathless body as they hold each other, laughing.


He used to be so angry all the time: at enemies, at friends, at fate.

These days, his enemies and friends are gone, and Agron is angry mostly at his own body: especially his hands that take too long to remember what they are, why they need to be strong.

Some days, he’s angry at Nasir, who refuses to coddle him. “They will heal,” is all he says, kissing one of Agron’s throbbing palms. Growling, Agron tightens his other hand on his lover’s cock despite the pain, and smiles when Nasir moans.

“They will,” he promises, to Nasir and himself.

Title: Doesn't Truly Matter
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Skins, series 5, Franky/Mini
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Franky is Franky; somehow that's always been enough.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Skins, either. Le sigh.
A/N: Birthday drabble for [info]alsha

Doesn't Truly Matter @ AO3

Mini feels certain enough when she slips out of her dress, but when Franky steps close, still dressed in that weird hipster suit, she laughs, a little self-conscious. “So, uhm… am I the girl, or…?”

Franky leans into her, smiling; strong hands framing Mini’s jaw. “Do you want to be the girl?”

Mini shrugs, fascinated as ever by the stark lines of Franky’s face, the intensity of those dark eyes. “I guess. Don’t you care?”

Franky undresses casually, baring long, pale limbs. “I really don’t.”

Mini swallows, heated by desire, and puts her hands on Franky’s hips. “Weirdo. Okay, then.”

Title: Not Always Easy
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Lip Service, Sam/Lexy
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Sam and Lexy try to make it work but it's OH LOOK AT THE SUPER-IMAGINATIVE TITLE.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Lip Service, either. Le sigh.
A/N: Birthday drabble for [info]alsha

Not Always Easy @ AO3

Some nights Sam comes home angry and wants to fuck without talking. Lexy doesn’t know how to do that without making it clear that it’s only the two of them: that it’s just her and Sam, without Cat. Doesn’t know how to make it clear she’s no stand-in for a ghost.


Some nights Lexy walks away, and it feels like she’ll never come back. She claims sleepovers with the girls, but Sam is never sure, and she hates being alone so much she can’t breathe. Come morning, Lexy calls, flirty and lovely; but those nights Sam feels like she died.

Title: Some Navigation Required
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Community, Britta/Annie
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: As per usual, Britta thinks she knows what she's doing.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Community, whyyyyyyy!
A/N: Birthday drabble for [info]alsha

Some Navigation Required @ AO3

“Uhm, Britta, I’m not sure…?” Annie offers tentatively after five minutes of Britta bobbing her head in wretched enthusiasm. (Technically seven and a half, but it’s not like anyone’s counting.)

Britta surfaces, red-cheeked and breathless. “Don’t worry, Annie! It’s normal to have inhibitions with another woman, but you can totally let go! I learned all about the female orgasm when I-“

“Britta!” Annie hisses, pushing her head back down. “I think you missed the part about where exactly… oh. Yes. Keep doing that.”

“Told you!” Britta says triumphantly, muffled.

“Yup,” Annie gasps, hands firm around Britta’s head. “You’re… the best.”

Title: As Occasion Suits
Author: [info]aldiara
Fandom/Characters: Harry Potter, Harry/Draco
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: When things go pear-shaped on your special day.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter, whyyyyyyy!
A/N: Birthday drabble for [info]lumosed_quill

As Occasion Suits @ AO3

“Quit whining, Malfoy,” Potter grins, raising wards around the cave they’ve found shelter in. Outside, rogue Death Eaters start flinging counter-spells. “Like we’ve never been stuck in a hopeless situation before.”

Draco curls up on damp rock, cradling a broken arm. “Well, no,” he snarls. “But it’s never looked quite so likely I’d die on my fucking birthday.”

Potter looms over him suddenly, all wide-eyed concern. “Your birthday?”

Draco looks away even as Potter casts a healing spell. “Fuck off. Are those wards done?”

“Yes.” Potter’s damp lips take him by surprise. “Draco-“

“Fuck off, Potter” he hisses, kissing back.


February 2018



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