Agron remembered the first time she'd looked at him like a lioness that had just caught sight of her prey. Her hair had been red and when he'd looked up at the balcony, the weight of her gaze somehow slowing the arm he swung in training, the sun had caught that mane and had made it glow. And there on her face had been blue eyes cold and calculating, watching his movements and measuring him. Surveying him for the slaughter. He'd never felt so small. Not when he'd been bound and forced into a slaver's ship. Not when he'd been stripped and examined by potential buyers. Not even when he'd suffered beneath Doctore's whip had he felt so very, very small. There, standing upon the sands with his head tilted back and his gaze lifted to the woman that stood above him, he hadn't felt like a man or a gladiator but like a boy, weak and cowering.
A hard blow from Spartacus's sword had brought Agron back to his training, but the damage had been done. The gladiator had fallen into a web, an insect stuck and waiting to be devoured by the spider come wrapped in silks and with hair inflamed by the sun.
He'd been left shaken by those eyes for some time, though now the feeling of vulnerability had left him, and with it the vision of his domina there on the balcony. But peace was far from him. Peace had fled him the moment he'd been taken by the Romans and shipped to their country, robbed of his freedom, and it would be long before he ever felt it again. There had been the hope of some peace there in the ludus; he trained and was given the chance of glory in the arena, but always there was a restlessness in him. A part of him that couldn't be content in chains. A part of him that could never be happy while another person held his strings and forced him to dance.
And, oh, how Agron would be forced to dance, little did he know - though he would soon.
They were all retiring to their rooms for the night after having washed the day's training from their bodies. But clean though Agron might have been, nothing could have washed away the exhaustion that always followed a hard day's work. It had been nothing but those since he stepped foot within the house of Batiatus; he and the rest of the gladiators suffered for it, but their bodies, broken and rebuilt constantly, benefited. Never had Agron been stronger, more fit - all the better, because within the arena he had to be the strongest and the fittest if he wanted to survive. As it was, Agron was looking forward to lowering himself onto the floor and falling to slumber - but he was cruelly stopped before he got there.
Though the cruelty of the act disappeared quickly when the gladiator turned and saw the one that had reached out and grabbed his arm. He looked upon this person through the bars of a gate, one that separated the ludus from the villa itself. There, standing just at the bottom of the stairs, was a slave, made obvious by not only the collar around his neck but by the shade of his skin, too dark for such a fair country. Where was he from? Agron found himself wondering suddenly. He wanted to know. The question was on the tip of his tongue and he parted his lips to speak it, as if he was in such a position to do so. But before the query could escape him, the slave spoke.
"You are Agron?" he asked, dark eyes flickering over the gladiator, no doubt looking for some indication that this was true. Agron didn't answer for some time; he was too distracted by the hand still resting on his arm. His skin warmed beneath the touch and he found he liked the way those fingers felt. They were not soft like a Roman's but worn and well-worked, though not as calloused as Agron's own. Still, the palms were not baby soft and the fingertips were not weak and the German suddenly wanted more of it.
It was the silence that shook Agron from his thoughts; the rest of the gladiators had disappeared around the corner, leaving him and the slave there in the heavy quiet. He slowly remembered what he'd been asked. "I am," came his reply, when the question had come back to him. "And what are you called?"
The slave looked surprised at the response. "Tiberius," he answered automatically, though he seemed unsure. Probably the query had caught him off-guard. It couldn't have been often anyone asked a slave his name. But the gladiator was curious. Intrigued. The only people he knew were the ones he trained with every day. Tiberius was new. Different. His touch was a foreign one and Agron welcomed it.
And he would encourage it. He grinned and turned more toward Tiberius, and with his free hand wrapped his fingers around one of the bars of the gate. With that, Agron was just a little closer to the slave, and he narrowed his eyes as he looked on. "Tiberius," he repeated, tasting and savoring it. Then he tilted his head to the side. "You're far too dark to have such a fair Roman name," Agron observed. Perhaps he'd be able to satisfy the initial curiosity he'd felt about the other man.
Or perhaps not. Though at first Tiberius had only seemed bemused by the question, his expression soon turned to alarm - he pulled his hand away and Agron immediately missed his touch - and then to determination. "The domina summons you," he then said, and gone from his tone was the wonder and tentativeness from before. Tiberius was back to being a slave and doing as ordered, and Agron longed for those brief seconds where the two had only been strangers meeting for the first time.
But then, in the midst of his pining, it dawned on him what the slave had just said. 'The domina summons you.' Suddenly Agron remembered all he'd felt underneath her gaze that day during training, remembered wilting beneath the shadow she'd cast upon him. The German would never admit to being afraid of anything but he might have been afraid of her, if he could recognize the feeling. It may have shown on his face but Tiberius saw nothing of it; the slave was looking determinedly at the gate as he took out a key and unlocked it, opening it and making way for the gladiator. Slowly and for the first but not the last time, Agron stepped into the villa and so stepped into another world.
It was easier, though, to focus on Tiberius than on this new world. Easier than it was to turn his head from side to side and see these things he'd never encountered before. The slave was something he understood, though they'd only just met. The other man was a mystery, yes, but less mysterious than an ornately carved table they passed or the lounge embroidered and covered in colorful pillows they walked by. None of these were things Agron even had words for. For Tiberius, he had some words: tempting, intriguing, warm, real, human. Agron could grasp onto these words and apply them all to the slave walking a few steps before him and that comforted the gladiator, distracted him from everything else that might overwhelm him, at least for a short time.
Too short a time. It wasn't long before Tiberius stopped and turned toward Agron, then gestured for him to enter a room laid out before them. Agron stilled, blue eyes wide and staring through the doorway. Through it he could see soft fabrics hanging, fluttering as if some invisible being walked by and slid gentle fingertips over them. The light was low but shone through the sheer curtains that softened everything, lent to the scene a gentleness and a lightness. But Agron was comforted by none of it. No, he wanted to recoil, to run away from it and back into the dirty ludus he'd been forced to make his home. But he couldn't run away. He had to do what he was told. He had to dance the dance. So instead of fleeing, he allowed himself one more glance at the slave, one more desperate grab for reality and familiarity - and then it was onto this ethereal plane he stepped, any comfort he'd gotten from Tiberius's dark eyes gone in a moment.
As he walked forward, a shadow started to come toward him through the fabrics. One would be pushed aside and past it a figure would brush, closer and closer until Agron could see the shape of a woman. She was silhouetted, the light behind her, and at that moment within arm's reach with only one gently fluttering curtain between her and the gladiator. That was when she spoke, and Agron's footsteps ceased.
"You will tell no one of this," came her voice. Though it was low, he recognized it. As long as that voice commanded him, he had to obey. In her hands were his strings and she would pull them and and twist them and do with them what she would. "Speak a word of it and find your time on this earth cut short." She reached out and her silhouetted hand was suddenly no longer that; he could see her fingers slowly curl around the edge of the curtain and they were flesh and bone, not just made of shadows as before.
"Yes, Domina," came Agron's reply. Those fingers tightened and the curtain was pulled aside, and revealed to the gladiator was his domina as he'd never seen her before. Her red hair was loose from its elaborate style, spilling over her shoulders. Through a sheer, shimmering robe he could see her naked body, the only thing adorning it a chain of precious metal around her waist. The domina was a vision that would make most men tremble, but Agron was not most men. His gaze remained on her eyes - the eyes that had looked coolly down at him from the balcony, eyes that had picked him out of a crowd of gladiators as if picking a dinner to be devoured. Yes, her beauty was lost on him because of that. But not only that. Had she been any other woman, Agron would have remained unmoved; his preference was not for this soft form, for this gentler sex, but for his own. A fact she was unaware of and a fact that she would care nothing for.
She stepped toward him and he thought she might be floating. Gliding across the floor, bare feet hovering rather than walking, and her robe rippling around her body - all of this should have likened her to a goddess, but he could only compare her to something come from the underworld to consume him. Agron had no real reason to think this of her, other than the moment of eye contact they'd shared days ago. He knew nothing of her character, knew nothing of how she treated others. It was only a feeling, a tightness in his chest like his heart was a cornered animal, a prisoner within his ribs. And there was nothing he could do to escape it. To escape her and the puppeteer’s hold she had on his strings.
Hers were the soft Roman hands that Tiberius didn’t have. She pressed her palm against his bare chest, fingertips lightly brushing over his skin, and when he dared let his gaze flicker to her face, she was looking into his eyes. They skirted away quickly and he swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. “You are here for one thing,” the domina said, her hand dropping lower. “To spill your seed inside of me. Take what enjoyment from it you will but never think--” She stopped her hand’s descent to grab his chin and force him to look at her, as if he would better absorb her words if he saw her lips as they formed them. “--never think that this is being done for your pleasure.” She looked at his lips then, regarded them with interest but then seemed to make a decision against them, and so she met his gaze again. “Do you understand?” she asked.
Agron understood all too well. This woman - this Lucretia, his domina - was ordering him to take her. There in the villa he would be forced to lay her down, would be forced to thrust into her again and again until he finished inside of her, filled her with his seed. He had no choice in the matter. It was the last thing he wanted to do; he felt no attraction toward her, no desire to do what she asked of him, and yet... And yet. “Domina,” he said, and nodded. Agron, so far undefeated in the arena, had just surrendered to this woman with one word. There would never be any victory over her.
"Undress," she said, taking a step back from him. Within seconds, the subligaria fell from his body and he was left naked. He had done this in front of her once before, he remembered. Before he'd become a gladiator. There had been a woman up on the balcony with her, the yellow-haired wife of some Roman official, and all the newly bought slaves had been ordered to disrobe. It had been different then - less unpleasant. He'd felt none of the discomfort that he did in that moment, exposed beneath Lucretia's icy blue gaze. This was far more intimate and he could feel her eyes on him, feel the path they took over his body. When he'd been on display for her before, there'd been no way for her to reach out and touch him, not from so high up on the balcony. Now he knew her hands would soon follow where her eyes traveled.
And so they did. She stepped forward again and reached out, wrapping her fingers around his flesh. Agron's body tensed; it had been long since anyone's hand but his own had touched that particular part of him. He should have stirred at it. His flesh should have warmed and hardened at the attention - it needed to. But it did not. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, clenched his jaw and willed his body to cooperate, to do what it must... but it did not. No doubt the domina wouldn't take well to him disobeying her, despite the lack of control he had over his body's response. Agron's heart raced and his mind whirred. What if she decided to punish him for not giving her what she desired?
"Apologies, domina," he said, and the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding left him in a rush. "The day has been long and the body suffers from lack of rest." It was bold of him to speak out of turn but he felt he needed to give some excuse, needed to defend himself somehow, although it was a lie. His eyes opened and he looked at her and for a moment thought that maybe, just maybe, there had been a flash of insecurity in her gaze, but it was gone in an instant if it had ever been there at all and replaced with anger. She froze there with her hand on him and her face lined with annoyance for only a moment before moving away from him and pulling her robe more tightly to her body, though it did nothing to hide her, sheer as it was.
"Go, then," she snapped, turning slightly away from Agron and regarding him with narrowed eyes. "I will call on you when you are fresher--" The last word she spat, her tone mocking. "--and then I will expect you to perform." She snapped her fingers and the slave Tiberius immediately appeared, ever ready to be summoned. Agron still stood naked, a thing he quickly realized when the other man's eyes slid over his body, brows raised. Turning slowly to glance down at himself, Agron then bent and replaced his subligaria, his skin heating beneath Tiberius's gaze. Where the domina had failed to arouse him, the slave did so without even trying - a fact that Lucretia could not know.
So Agron would escape as quickly as he could. "Domina," he said, nodding his head once in her direction, and then he fled. He didn't even wait for Tiberius to lead him away; he walked blindly through the place so unfamiliar to him and didn't stop until a hand reached out and halted him. A hand he recognized. Soft but not too soft. The gladiator turned and faced Tiberius.
"That is the wrong way," the slave said kindly. The way he looked at Agron - was it pitying? No, no, not pity. More like... concern. For a long moment the gladiator only looked at the other man, only read the expression in his face. The villa around them was quiet and gave the two this rare moment of privacy. Agron did nothing with the moment he might have before he'd met Lucretia; before, he might have tried to charm Tiberius. Might have commented on the slave's name again or might have called him 'little man' to see what lay beneath his collected exterior. Might have touched his hair. But he could only stand and stare and, finally, after a long moment, speak.
"I could not do what she asked of me," he said, though why he admitted this, he had no idea. Why was he so immediately trusting of this man, the one he'd only just met? This was a slave that no doubt worked close to Batiatus and his wife, a slave that saw more of the dominus and the domina than he ever would of Agron, and yet the gladiator confided in him. Perhaps it was foolish, but he could do nothing to stop himself. "She made me feel nothing," was the rest of his whispered confession. And then his gaze dropped to where Tiberius still touched him. It was the same spot his hand had found before. Agron would surely remember the weight of it.
When Tiberius next spoke, his voice was gentle. "Come," he said, and tugged Agron in the right direction. The gladiator followed, all too aware that Tiberius had not let go of him. It was an unpleasant clash of emotion; horror at what had just happened between himself and the domina and intrigue at the way Tiberius's fingers slid down his arm and loosely wrapped around his wrist. Agron could have taken the other man's hand, if he'd wanted to. Or if he'd had the energy or the courage to - because a part of him did want to. Just an impulse, as confessing what had taken place with Lucretia had been.
The slave only relinquished his hold on Agron's wrist when he had to take out the key to unlock the gate at the bottom of the stairs and let the gladiator through. The gate was closed behind Agron once he stepped over the threshold into the ludus, but the German didn't immediately make for his cell. No, he turned his head and there was Tiberius, looking at him through the bars of that gate again. Blue eyes met dark ones and they remained locked for a long moment, though Tiberius was the first to look away. His long lashes fluttering when he averted his gaze and blinked, as if he'd only just realized he'd been staring. And just as Agron shifted, reaching out and wrapped the fingers of both hands around two of those bars and parting his lips to, perhaps, say something, the other man turned and quickly ascended the stairs once more without another word.
But before Tiberius disappeared, Agron noticed that the slave sneaked one more glance at him. That glance stayed with the gladiator as he dropped his hands from the metal bars and then made his way to his cell. It was a far more pleasant thing to think on than everything he'd endured in the villa, and it was what Agron grasped to when finally he closed his eyes to sleep.
Though he did not stay asleep for long. A few hours had passed, perhaps; the air was heavy with nighttime, the ludus dark save the light given off by torches flickering here and there throughout the corridors. Agron was roused by the familiar and particular sound his own cell door made when it was opened. He narrowed his eyes in the low light, expecting one of the other gladiators, but he quickly became aware that this was a figure he did not know. At least not well enough to make out in the dark. It wasn't until the figure turned to close the metal, gated door behind him and the light hit the planes of his face that Agron realized who it was.
"Tiberius?" the gladiator said into the dark, his voice hesitant. He sat up quickly on the low platform that served as his bed and regarded the other man with wide eyes. He couldn't have been here to take Agron back to Lucretia. It was too soon. "What are you--?" he started, but Tiberius quickly approached and reached out, pressing his fingertips against Agron's mouth to silence him. And so the gladiator's words faltered and died in his throat, though he didn't miss them. No, he'd forgotten them the moment he'd felt Tiberius's skin against his lips. His heart started thumping harder in his chest, faster than before, and all from what might have been an innocent touch. Or it could have been, had it stopped there.
The slave, at first, gave no answered to Agron's unfinished question. Instead, he pushed forward, forcing Agron back until he was pressed against the wall, still sitting. Tiberius was on his knees upon the platform, unforgiving as it was with only a blanket to make it a bed, and he straddled Agron's lap. The fingertips that had been pressed against the gladiator's lips had moved to gently take Agron's chin, and only when Tiberius was sure he had the other man's attention did he speak, dark eyes intent on Agron's. The gladiator felt as though he couldn't move underneath that gaze. "She will call on you again," the slave said softly. There was no need to explain who he spoke of. "If you cannot perform as she wants, you will suffer for it." Tiberius took a breath before leaning forward, his face so very close. "Tell me," he whispered, and Agron could almost feel the words against his own lips. "Do you want me?"
A surge of desire left Agron breathless. His hands, previously motionless at his sides, lifted and slid up the other man's bare thighs, pushing up the scant cloth wrapped around his waist and called clothing. It had been so long since he'd had a body this close - at least, a body that he wanted. Which was the answer to what Tiberius had asked. "Yes," Agron breathed in reply. The other man was so warm against him. And getting warmer.
"Then take me," Tiberius said, and Agron had to close his eyes against yet another wave of desire. "And think of me when next the domina asks for you."
So Tiberius was doing him a kindness, giving him inspiration for when he would need it - and yet Agron didn't doubt that the slave wanted this, too. No, he could feel the other man's fast heartbeat against his own when their chests pressed together. He could feel the eagerness in those lips when they pressed against his in their first kiss shared. And there was no hiding the way Tiberius's hips shifted just slightly there in Agron's lap, body encouraging the hands that had dragged up to cup his ass.
Agron had never tasted anything so sweet as the tongue that slid against his own. Tiberius was aggressive in the kiss, pushing it further and further, adding more and more pressure until they were both bruised by it. The gladiator found his head pressed against the wall at his back, tilting up to meet the lips that bore down on him, and in that moment he wondered if maybe Tiberius needed this just as badly as Agron did. Because they were both slaves, and slaves were rarely given the chance at pleasure. How long had it been since Tiberius had felt another's lips pressed against his own? How long since strong hands had grabbed the backs of his thighs and pulled him nearer?
The way that body trembled against Agron's own was answer enough.
The gladiator was the first to break away from the kiss, and Tiberius chased after it with parted lips desperate for what had been taken from them. But there was more to do. Agron made quick work of the small amount of clothing Tiberius wore and in that moment he wished it were daytime. He wished he could see that dark, naked skin laid out before him. What he could see in the tiniest bit of light that made its way into his cell was beautiful; a different shade from his own, something new and fascinating. Something Agron would have explored fully, had he the time.
But they had such a limited amount of that. Tiberius took his turn undressing Agron and wasted no time in reaching out and touching the flesh that had already awakened at the feeling of the other man's body against his own. So different from what had happened with Lucretia; the woman's hand hadn't been able to elicit a response from him and yet not a single touch from Tiberius and Agron was hard. Aching. Even more so now that the slave was stroking him. The gladiator closed his eyes and allowed himself a quiet moan, though he had to be careful. Anything louder might wake those in the cells around his own, though there were stone walls separating them. No doubt the consequences would be dire if he and Tiberius were found out.
And then, suddenly, Tiberius was shifting on top of him and positioning himself to be penetrated. The gladiator's eyes flew open and he grabbed at the other man's hips. That was going far too quickly; surely the slave would need more help to adjust to such an invasion. But Tiberius smiled a shy sort of smile and bumped his forehead against Agron's in a surprisingly affectionate gesture - though, somehow, it didn't seem out of place here. "I have already prepared myself for you," he whispered, lifting his eyes to look at Agron. The two were so close that Agron could feel the slave's eyelashes mingle with his own.
But that was not the thing the gladiator was focused on. No, his mind had just provided him with the image of Tiberius tucked away in some dark corner of the villa, his back arched and his fingers slick with oil and pressing against his own entrance. "Fuck," Agron breathed as that dream of Tiberius threw his head back and began pumping his fingers in and out of himself. How badly the gladiator wished he could have seen that. But how very smart it had been of Tiberius to so make ready himself before stealing away.
So now the slave reached behind him and took Agron's flesh in his hand, guiding it to his opening. The gladiator thought that maybe he was dreaming; this felt too good to be real. The gods had never been so kind to him before, making Tiberius known to him and then sending the slave to his cell to give him exactly what he'd been imagining since the moment he'd laid eyes on the other man. But even if it was just a dream, he would enjoy it. Slowly, Tiberius lowered himself onto the gladiator's length, and Agron could only grab onto the other man's hips and hold tightly enough to leave marks of his fingerprints. The slave was so tight. Impossibly tight. His preparation had only done so much and now it was Agron's hard flesh that would stretch him.
It was a long time before Tiberius was fully seated on Agron's length. When finally the last inch had disappeared inside of the slave, they were the both of them breathing hard, holding tightly onto each other, hands sliding over sweat-slicked skin. Their foreheads were still pressed against one another and Tiberius only needed to tilt his chin forward to meet Agron's lips in a slow, deep kiss. But it didn't keep at that pace. It grew more and more heated, more and more desperate, and that was when Tiberius began to move. He began to lift himself up and slide slowly back down and like the kiss, the speed increased as the moments passed. Their kiss was broken every time Tiberius lifted himself up but they wouldn't part from it; their lips would touch whenever the slave took that flesh inside of him again and their teeth would knock and sometimes they would miss the kiss entirely, but neither cared.
Tiberius's palms were pressed flat against the wall at Agron's back and the gladiators arms were wrapped tightly around the other man's waist, keeping their bodies close even as the slave rode him. They both tried to stay quiet but once in a while a gasp would escape into the darkness or a moan would pass between their mouths, hastily silenced by hushing, hungry lips. Soon Agron helped to move the other man on top of him; he grabbed the flesh of the slave's ass, the abrupt movement sending the sharp sound of a slap through the cell, and with his strength added to the mix they built up to a frenzied pace. Tiberius had to hold on, his fingers now wrapped around the back of Agron's neck, nails digging into his skin.
It was all too much for the gladiator, who'd so long been denied this kind of pleasure. He could have finished right then and there, Tiberius sliding up and down on his cock, but then it would have been over too soon. Far, far too soon. Abruptly, Agron pulled Tiberius down on his length and stopped his movements. The gladiator met some resistance, the body on top of his wanting to keep going and going until they were both spent, but no. He would have a little control. For just a brief moment, Agron held Tiberius right where he sat, sword-roughened hands sliding over the man's body: over the flexing muscles of the slave's ass, over the slight curve of his back, over tired thighs that twitched beneath Agron's fingers.
That short moment of respite was all he allowed them. Shifting slightly, Agron laid back, pulling Tiberius with him so that they weren't parted for even a moment. He braced both feet on the platform beneath them and then started thrusting up into the other man's body. The movement tightened the muscles of his legs and of his stomach but he'd been conditioned to uphold this kind of strenuous activity. When Doctore had trained his gladiators it surely hadn't been for this, but it gave Agron the strength to set a fast pace and keep it, despite the strain on his body. He loved seeing Tiberius on top of him and would keep it that way.
Though the slave kept insisting on trying to be the one to control the speed. As playful punishment, Agron pulled a hand back and for the second time smacked the other man's ass, reveling in the sound it made. A small gasp escaped Tiberius's throat; the fingers he had still wrapped around the back of Agron's neck curled, nails dragging, and his spine arched. It was a reaction he'd pull from Tiberius again and again, every once in a while lightly spanking him before sliding an apologetic hand over skin warmed by the gentle punishment. When Tiberius kissed him, it was desperate, hard, and clumsy, and Agron knew the slave's body was getting closer and closer to release with every thrust of the gladiator's hips.
Soon, Tiberius tensed on top of Agron. The gladiator grabbed the other man's ass, held it where it was and began to pound into it without mercy, and Tiberius cried out. There was no muffling the sound that time; it echoed through the cell and most likely carried to others. But Agron didn't care. No, he cared nothing of it, because Tiberius was pressed against him, his face buried against Agron's neck and continuous moans falling desperately from his lips. "Finish," the gladiator whispered, breathless, "and I will follow." It was the only order Tiberius needed to hear. His release came to him without any warning, the flesh trapped between the two of them pulsing and throbbing and covering their bodies in the slave's seed. To feel that trembling body against his own was too much; Agron, as promised, followed Tiberius's release almost immediately, his back bowing and his hips thrusting up before he spilled within the other man.
The two grasped onto one another too hard; they would both be covered in bruises, would both be adorned with long and red scratch marks when the sun rose over the ludus. They would need to be careful about hiding the evidence, then - but neither were worried about that in the moment. No, they only clutched at one another and gasped for breath and stifled the moans that wanted so badly to escape whenever one of their bodies twitched in the aftermath of their mutual release. It had been an intense ride, though too short for either of their liking, but daylight would come soon, and they would have to be parted before then. Agron dreaded the moment and so kept his arms wrapped tightly around Tiberius, but there was no need to trap him there; the slave remained pressed against him, body heavy and spent and making no attempt to pull away.
But he did speak, when he managed to catch his breath. "Was that inspiration enough?" Tiberius asked, lips close to Agron's ear. A shiver traveled the length of the gladiator's body and he closed his eyes, even the gentle touch of the slave's breath against his ear too much for his sensitive body.
"I will not soon forget it," Agron assured him, lightly tracing the other man's spine with his fingertips. No, the gladiator would never forget this. If he had his way, the feeling of Tiberius pressed against him would be a feeling he kept with him always.
The slave pulled back slightly only to find Agron's lips with his own in a kiss chaste compared to the others they'd shared. It was sweet and slow, lazy in the wake of the frenzied activity that had left their bodies tired and weak. "If only I could stay," Tiberius then whispered in a voice so soft that Agron almost hadn't heard it. But hear it, he did, and so held Tiberius a little closer. It was a relief that Tiberius had said so, because Agron wished for the very same thing. It wasn't often he took a lover only once; when he was intimate it was always with someone he cared for, someone he wanted to explore further, and yet how likely was it that he'd be able to do so with Tiberius? Perhaps the slave would be able to sneak back into the ludus like he had that night, but it was a risk, especially with the task Lucretia had appointed to Agron.
But the gladiator was selfish and would ask Tiberius to take that risk. "Will you come back?" They both pulled away to look at one another in the same moment and Agron could see Tiberius's mind working behind his dark eyes. The slave's brow drew together and his lips parted but before he could answer in the negative, which surely was to come, Agron sat up, holding the slave tightly to himself. "Say you will," he whispered, and brushed his lips over Tiberius's. And at that simple touch the slave surrendered and then nodded and then claimed the gladiator's mouth once more, and they kissed until neither could breathe again. Whether or not that was a promise to be kept would be a worry for another time.
Tiberius had lingered too long. Soon, he pulled away from Agron, groping in the dark to find his clothes. "I must return to the villa before I am missed," he said, and he sounded as disappointed as Agron felt. As Tiberius climbed unsteadily to his feet and began dressing himself, the gladiator slid to the edge of the platform and only watched, and when Tiberius met Agron's mournful gaze no doubt he couldn't help but lean over and kiss it away. "Think of me," Tiberius said against Agron's mouth, "as I will never stop thinking of you." And before Agron could keep him there any longer - which he would have, had he his way - Tiberius slipped from the cell to return to the villa. Agron closed his eyes and willed himself to remember that last kiss exactly how it had been: gentle, sweet, full of promise. And so he would feel it as he lay down now alone, and he would feel it when he woke for training, and he would feel it when Lucretia inevitably called him to her bed.
Tiberius had been a muse come to the gladiator in the night, but he had brought with him more than mere inspiration. He had brought a warmth that Agron had never thought he'd feel again. He'd brought pleasure unparallelled to any the gladiator had ever felt before. He'd brought the hope that, if Agron wanted to, he could cut his own strings and dance and dance in the dark, the puppetmaster far from him and freedom closer than he'd ever imagined.
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