Title: Of Fire and Nectar

Type: Slash, first time, episodic (hidden scenes)

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: Spartacus: Blood and Sand

Pairing/s: Spartacus/Crixus (Spartycrix)

Episode Setting: Somewhere between Season 1's Episode 9 "Whore" and Episode 10 "Party Favours"

Word Count: 1890

Summary: Another day of toil and swordsmanship at Batiatus' ludus, and yet another exchange of heated sentiments between Champion of Capua, Spartacus, and his perplexed predecessor. Crixus loathes the man that now holds his title, and he makes no secret of it, no matter the disrespect involved. Spartacus, though preferring peace or at least a ceasefire, proves to be a little too acidic when bitten, for Crixus' tastes. Doctore's disciplinary action thereafter, unexpectedly leads to bad, bad things…so bad they're good. Exactly what happens when you put two Gladiators in secluded confinement when each hates the other? Perhaps even Sura could not predict such things…and if she could, perhaps she would enjoy it, if a gay porn fanatic.

Warnings: This is my first ever S:BaS slashfic, so keep that in mind. I'd never planned on writing any fic for this fandom at all, so I hope it turns out well. Like all of my fics this one does not consist of spiteful smut. I let sexual chemistry and interactions build up somewhat believably and naturally so if you have no interest in good characterization, humour or nifty dialogue and just want Sparty and Crix to just start fisting each other after in the second paragraph after some fighting, then this won't be the fic for you. May be slightly spoilerish to those who have not seen "Whore" (the 9th episode of Season 1) and perhaps other episodes prior to that. Also, there are some references to Greek mythology which may or may not confuse some readers. First in a series, not all chapters will be smutty.

NOTE: Strictly NonCrit; you're not professional, I didn't employ you, so don't bother. Reviews are welcome and if you want to add me as a friend on LJ/MSN just let me know!

Disclaimer: Don't own Spartacus: Blood and Sand or the characters, just like writing about it and them and interpreting them as shameless oversexed whores.

Each burning sun of Capua's new days served as reminder to Spartacus that he was far from his homeland of Thrace, a fact which need not have been reiterated to him by any method outside of obvious intelligence, yet did all the same. No matter how inferior the fact of his physical location in comparison to those which concerned the new Champion's heightened mortality, Spartacus could not help but find foreign discomfort to the dry air that now filled his lungs, the hardened soles of his feet weary still of the Roman sand upon which they stood; so much so that his soul still heard songs of it. This day was not unlike others that had recently came before it; sweat born of the sky's golden fire as well as routine exhaustion, and yet enduring such seemed to have gotten easier. Respected by his brothers of battle for the position to which he has ascended, from beginnings that were not only humble but also painfully devoid of promise, Batiatus' trophied Gladiator may well have now been more golden than the fabled apples that had cost Atlanta the race, yet if a tree, his roots still both wooden and firmly planted. He knew the cost upon his honour if ever he should lose sight of the man his wife had loved, as well as he knew of the wretched corruption that perpetuated from his accepted Dominus, yet though journey through this felt to his heart a weakness, his conscientious spirit was in fact the greatest of blades amidst his arsenal. Though his respect for the arena remained absolute in it's truth, the once commonly despised Thracian would let his peers and audience celebrate him, he would even let them believe that his ego had responded accordingly just as he would his Dominus that he was no more than a willing puppet of death and unquestioning execution. Instead of him, they saw the mantle of his victory; yet he saw them all, a valuable treasure to hold in the fates that were to come.

The hollow clamor of practice swords and their collisions filled the air around him without steady pattern. His rise to greatness as unheard of as his particular favour with his Dominus, Spartacus took no advantage of this when it came to his training, though growing ever more masterful, his swords still rested last of all, much to the envious rage that Crixus spared no effort towards hiding from behind the orbs of his specifically designated sight. The former Champion's eyes never left his successor, nor did they falter when Spartacus' own had caught their fierce gazes. It sent Crixus to a measure of madness, observing the glory of a man he could make pieces of without his best efforts exerted, more so because Spartacus so well fit the image to which he had been rewarded and held, even moistened with the sweat of his exertion, he pressed on through his vigorous regime with no hardship expressed in his wake, not even a tenseness to his jaw; he made it look so easy. As Crixus found it difficult to keep his mind's roar from evolving to one that had become vocal, though awake he dreamt fast of the many ways in which he would love to break the filthy, undeserving Thracian, if only it were an option or at least without a trace leading back to him.

"Your eyes continue to find concern with me, Gaul. Have matters not yet been settled enough? Is it my blood that you must crave and fail still to shed more of?", Spartacus uttered softly, his words both provocatively direct as well as they were spoken in respectful volume; it was not Spartacus' intent to humiliate Crixus before others present, least of all while he had fallen from grace, though no matter the Thracian's efforts, the larger Gladiator would not meet them well; Crixus found no possibility in anything of Spartacus being favourable.

"You would deny my eyes the admission of their master's sentiments? Filthy Thracian, you may own the crowds as well as their coins just as I once have and will again, but you own no claim to whom I look, nor to whom I wish broken bone.", the less intellectual Crixus shot back with barbed ease of viciousness, an impressive effort on his behalf, and if not for his quickness to thought then for his inimitable proclivity to rage and how naturally he expressed it through nuance that could not be taught.

"Save your passions for pursuit of them, lest you wish to waste them now with me. Perhaps then will your chances lessen to narrow."

"Ahahaha,", Crixus bellowed a feat of unkind, obnoxious laughter that bounced from the concrete walls behind him where he sat, not intimidated enough by the Champion to stand in fear of his potential action, "Advice! From you! I am to learn from a man more feminine and frail than the cunt from which he was born! Make no mistake in this Thracian; to be Champion of Capua can not be bought, and yet you have made such purchase with pennies of luck. You victor over me but once when strength had not yet returned, and you raise this fact as though a medal to Jupiter. Your reign of this ludus is one of falsehood, and by my sword will such lies by torn apart.", the angered Gaul delivered, as rabidly as Hades' hounds did death.

"Then let me extend my acceptance of such invitation, whenever you feel you are once again returned to your former glory. Our brothers might benefit from yet another display.", this time Spartacus' intent was maligned, poking fun at his fellow Gladiator's sore spot, which all knew existed; his removal as Champion in the Thracian's wake, his brutal loss in battle to Spartacus but days ago, before all now also present. How it sent Crixus into a frenzy of hate and rage to hear Spartacus speak such words through untroubled tongue, soft and deadly like sweetly flavoured poison, the smaller man showing absolutely no sign of fear or concern in his physicality, how it riled Crixus. Whatever rise the Gaul sought from the Thracian, he was never justly rewarded, but instead further insulted and outwitted in a flurry of subtle atrocities. No sword had ever taken the Gaul quite so off guard, and neither had any man, nor had one ever cut him so deeply in spite of the actual scars his flesh bared; it was he who was used to besting others, unarmed or otherwise, and always unkindly.

"Raise your swords now then, great Spartacus, and with them I shall make sleeve of your deserving anus."

As quickly as the bemused Thracian turned his head in part to mock his verbal enemy with understated laughter, so too was he struck to the jaw by what felt like the full weight of adult steed, no matter the illusion of such force coming merely by Crixus' hand. Though the Gaul was large, he was hardly well matched in speed, and yet the weaker man in the fight had surpassed his expectations in skill; no longer the helpless prey he once had been to the prized monstrous lion of the arena. As the bombastic force of Crixus blows fell upon Spartacus like rain made of rock, he drew once more upon the inexplicable fortitude his peers both revered and coveted, which now paired with his excelled proficiency in combat, made him a force that perhaps his attacker would have been wiser to be weary of; most men would not have yet stood after the gargantuan Gaul's first blow. The insulted Champion threw his swords to each of his sides, making statement that he did not need them. He punched the Gaul just once in the face, knowing that it would not buy him more than a second's chance to begin true retaliation; he had taken fist to the Gaul's face before, and had learnt that he might as well have been doing so to thin air. Instead, Spartacus infused the disciplines granted him by Doctore with use, forcing an upwards elbow to Crixus' chin and quickly chopping at the beastly man's thick, muscular neck, causing instant pain and breathing desperation to he who towered over the Thracian. Still, Crixus was unlike other challengers and hardly simply a man at all; Spartacus knew that even such a debilitating attack would not fetter this egotist, this fevered animal.

Almost quicker than Spartacus could recollect himself or even think of his next course of action, he found himself thrown backwards an impressive number of feet, slamming into an adjacent pillar; clever, the Gaul had bought himself precious time to catch his breath and process his newfound pain, a cause for caution though, he had gotten much stronger than last he took fist to his Thracian menace. As the vexed behemoth stormed towards him, Spartacus dove under his legs, redirecting Crixus' punch so that it met the solid pillar once behind it's target; startlingly, this caused barely a grimace in Crixus. Still, it gave Spartacus the time to deliver three full forced strikes to Crixus' sides with all the velocity of a frenzied panther, kicking down upon the back of one of his legs just above the calf, forcing the Gaul to fall to his knees and hit his head against the earlier problematic pillar. Though the Champion now had his challenger's head locked and stressed between the closing grip of his arms, from behind, it appeared this fight had ran it's course, if the cracking of Doctore's whip was any indication worth addressing; and oh how it was.

"Release him!", the man of night's skin demanded, threatening to eviscerate Spartacus' flesh if he dared deny his order, "Champion of Capua…you have not yet learned to still your temper…you make mockery of this ludus and the Gladiators who have died in honour of it."

"Doctore, I did not…he came at-", and before Spartacus could say the word "me", the cracking of Doctore's whip sounded once more, and less leniently this time. It was true that Doctore held favouritism to Crixus and grew weary of Spartacus, such had been proven more times then one hand could count, however, Spartacus knew better than to appear confrontational on that matter.

"Now is not a time for you to speak, Spartacus. And Crixus, it is to you I hold most shame…as from you, I expect much better.", the ringmaster spoke; lowly pitched words toned like boiled gravel.

"Yes Doctore.", both Gaul and Thracian answered, sharing a momentary look of abrupt disgust upon realising that at least vocally, for once they both agreed on something. Of course, the moment fleeted recklessly in time to avoid true punishment from Doctore's soaring tool of chastisement.

"Todays training for both of you ends now. Instead, you will be escorted indoors. Since my patience with you has exhibited no result, perhaps the test of your patience with one another will prove to have the opposite effect.", and though dead but yet a seer, Sura could hear the bellows of protest pouring forth from the mind of her husband, as well as his attacker; they did not want to be left together with no other, not even for one grain of sand's worth to an hourglass.

END