#i hope this isn't terrible

[lovelucilfer]

my beloved bestie in sin, @feitanporter dedicated a beautiful set of gifs to me. so in return, and after many a conversation about chrollo and his perfect nose, I have this to offer. part two to this post. and happy birthday to the king of thieves himself. 🕷🖤

In the bedroom Chrollo chuckles at the sight of your back turned to him, and is quick to close the distance. At the foot of the bed he smooths his palms over the skin of your bare arms, crossed in front of you, coaxing you to face him. The frown you wear is fake, wavering. You’re not nearly as good an actor as he is, and your body temperature is giving you away.

“You didn’t like it?” he teases, hooking a pale finger under your chin to make you look at him. He leans in then, until his lips are a hairsbreadth from your own, “I think the state of your panties is going to tell me otherwise.”

He watches with rapt attention and mirth, the way that you react to his words. Your body succumbing to lust, betraying the frustration you feel toward him at his calculated antics. How easy it is for him to put you in such a state of arousal. Fewer things in his life give Chrollo more satisfaction than to play with you like this. He’s thought often that your sweet desperation and unadulterated need for him are better than the spoils of any heist.

He can tell how needy you are by the way you fist the loose fabric of his sweatshirt to pull him nearer, providing him your thorough review of his little display from earlier with a deep kiss. You moan into his mouth and Chrollo thinks you must taste the sweetness of the citrus still lingering on his tongue. The sound of it goes straight to his cock. Though he's much more concerned with getting to taste you before doing anything else.

Chrollo guides you slowly until the backs of your legs knock against the mattress, urging you to sit at its edge as he continues to lick into your mouth with affection. The tips of his fingers flirt with the waistband of your sleep shorts before expertly hooking themselves into the satin, leaving your tank top and panties in place. With a helpful lift of your hips, being the ever careful and attentive lover that he is, he slides them down and off. He has half a mind to bring the piece of discarded clothing to his nose, but decides against it remembering he can go straight to the source. Sinking to the floor in front of you then, he rests his hands gingerly on both your knees. The authority in his stare makes you press your thighs together with heavy want and anticipation. He doesn’t miss it.

“Open them for me, sweetheart. Let me see.”

Calm and as patient as ever he squeezes gently. The encouraging touch prompting you to shift your weight back onto your elbows as you part your legs for him. Chrollo almost sighs at the sight, his mouth watering. You’re visibly wet. The thin, flimsy material of your underwear turned translucent where it sticks to you obscenely. Feeling the heat of his own arousal start to creep up his neck, he makes quick work of removing his sweatshirt, and moves to hold you open by the backs of your knees. You feel the hum of his approval as he kisses at the skin on the inside of your ankle, and then again at your thighs. The intimacy of the small action makes you swoon as your eyes follow his movements.

He can feel his blood run hot in his veins, rushing to his groin where he grows harder and harder in his slacks by the second the longer he looks at you laid out before him like this. Typically he is a man of quiet composure. But not with you. Not when he is mere inches away from your perfect pussy that’s soaked just for him. Not when you’re as intoxicating as you are. 

He pauses then, his gaze locking with yours for what comes next. Pressing his lips to the intricate lace, Chrollo kisses you over your panties before skillfully taking them off. Tightening his grip on your thighs to keep you still, he watches intently when you inhale a shaky breath before he lowers his mouth to you again. 

Chrollo’s tongue is warm and relentless. He knows where you’re weak. In all the time the two of you occupy each other’s company he spends a good amount of it keenly observing you, and the way that you observe him in return. It amuses him to know all the subtle ways that he can make you tick, to be acutely aware of the effect he has on you. Especially now as he watches you writhe on the edge of the bed while he eats you like a man starved. He can’t help but to smirk into the wet mess you make for him.

The lewd sounds of his mouth on your cunt cause your face and ears to burn with embarrassment, but the pleasure building in your core is wound tight. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him. Chrollo slurps at you greedily, the only way he knows how. He licks into you with a stripe from bottom to top, gathering everything you have to offer him at the tip of his tongue before spitting at your clit and watching it drip. When he pulls back to steal an indulgent glimpse of your fucked out expression, strings of saliva from his lips stay connected to you while his inky hair falls in front of his face. Reflexively you weave your fingers into it, bringing the beautiful cross tattoo adorning his forehead into view. You tug and a low moan slips from his lips. 

Eyes fixated on you, Chrollo suctions his mouth back to your pretty pussy. The rapid rise and fall of your flushed chest is not lost on him. He takes care to purposefully brush his nose against your sensitive clit, revelling in the way that you immediately squirm in response to the stimulation. The pointed tip of it is perfectly positioned as he lets his tongue swirl and delve lazily into your cunt. Your sweet sounds and broken cries of his name make his cock twitch and leak in his pants. Chrollo wants nothing more than to make your legs shake around his head.

You’re so close now, pending orgasm burning white hot in the pit of your stomach. He knows this all too well and works artfully, repeatedly pressing his beautiful nose to your clit like the future of the troupe depends on it. He’s dead set on making you cum, and all at once it’s too much. Because you are,

“C-cumming! -I’m cumming!” is a breathless, barely audible stutter on your lips.

The heat of it seemingly spiders across your body from the center out. Your back arching from the bed, hips rocking forward as both hands intertwine with Chrollo’s hair to desperately push his moaning mouth further into you, thighs trembling as you try not to close them too tightly. He has often entertained the thought of death and pondered all the ways in which he might meet it. But Chrollo is certain, if he were to die in this moment, suffocated face first in your pussy, he’d go happily. It would be more than worth it for the absolute glow that radiates from you when you finally release him from between your legs.

He can’t help but to smirk as he lets the expanse of his hands splay themselves over your still shaking thighs to soothe you. You’re staring at the ceiling, a layer of sweat glistening over your skin, panting from the orgasm he’s given you, and Chrollo thinks you’ve never looked prettier. He’s smug when he rises to his feet, expectant when you meet his unwavering, adoring gaze. An airy laugh leaves you as you roll your eyes at the dangerous man that you love in defeat. You know you have to answer him,

“I did like it.” 

The wicked smile he wears is coated in your slick, smeared cheek to cheek from loving you so well. Gentle as ever, Chrollo motions for you to shuffle back on the bed. He bends to take your hands in his own, bringing one of them up to his lips to press them to the soft skin of your wrist before interlocking your fingers and pinning them down. You find yourself craning your neck upward, mouth chasing his, needing to taste yourself on him. Pulling apart, his eyes rake over you, still hungry and dark,

 “I knew that you would, sweetheart.”

When Chrollo slots himself between your legs once more, hearing the surprised moan you give at the feeling of his still hard cock pressing into your thigh, he throbs in the confines of his slacks and makes a mental note to himself to be sure to buy more clementines.

[sophieswundergarten]

"Well, I'm glad that I met you too, Katie-Cat."

For one moment, in the split second after the words left his mouth, Milligan glances up to see Kate's surprised and confused expression across the breakfast table, before a glaring whiteness sears through his vision and he drops his head, grimacing in pain.

Kate's confusion quickly turns to panic and she shoots up, knocking her chair back from the table. She quickly comes around to him, her hand hovering above his shoulder, hesitant to touch him while he was experiencing such an intense memory flash. She hasn't ever seen him in such pain before, and it's starting to scare her a little. But she's the Great Kate Weather Machine, and nothing scares her, not even when Milligan reaches out to grip the table with white knuckles and shaking hands, trying to stabilize himself.

"Milligan?" She asks softly. "Milligan, are you doing alright? Um, okay. We're in Mr. Benedict's kitchen, we were eating breakfast. I had eggs, and you were making toast. We were up last night, looking at the stars. Do you remember that?"

Milligan's mind resounds with the name, the syllables and the familiar way it had slipped out reverberating: "Katie-Cat". Where did it come from? Where had he heard it? He must have heard it at some point, but he can't recall ever having known someone named Kate before. He had to have loved them very much to give them that nickname, he can feel it.

He blinks hard, and while the painful blankness clears from his vision, reality still feels a long way off. He's walking somewhere, outside; he can see puddles on the wet ground and feel the sun on his back. He's walking alongside... a pond. He knows this pond, but he can't place why.

Suddenly, the sound of splashing makes him look up. There's a girl, a tiny little girl in the water. She's swimming like a duck, beautifully, so he's not sure why an icy lance of fear struck his heart upon hearing her shrieks of laughter and mistaking them for fear.

A voice rumbles out of his chest, but there's an audible sense of joy and pride that makes it foreign to him. Distantly, he notes that words are being said, that he seems to be calling out to the girl. She flashes him a huge smile and makes her way to the bank, reaching it just as he arrives to scoop her up and toss her gently before reaching out to catch her again. She squeals and giggles as she flies through the air, as if she trusts completely that he's going to catch her when she comes back down.

He hoists her onto his shoulders, letting her lean comfortably against the back of his neck. She asks something, and though the words don't quite make it to his ears, Milligan knows that she's asking him if they can go back to the mill pond again. That's what it must be, a mill pond. He wonders for a brief second why he hadn't known that, before he hears himself responding to her question. And this time the words he says ring with a sharp clarity.

"Of course we can, Katie-Cat."

"— eagle, I think you said that it's called Aquila, but it's got the twelfth brightest star in the sky, which is still pretty neat, I think. You don't have to be the best at something to still be good at it and things and, um... That's all the star facts I can remember right now. Come on, Kate. Think of something else to say, you can't just trail off into silence now, Milligan needs you."

His eyes were closed, Milligan found, and while one of his hands is still clutching at the table, the other one has a smaller hand gently pressed into it, holding tight. He hears that same voice again, the one that had laughed and sounded so excited to see him and had asked if they could return to the mill pond with the most innocent trust he had ever heard in his life. It's older, now, having lost some of the high-pitched squeakiness of a toddler, and a bit more serious, as though it's been used to share too many secrets and too much pain in its still short life. There's a distinct sadness to it right now, and he can hear little gasps as the voice stutters through a recount of what had happened the over past week. Unconsciously, Milligan's brow wrinkles. No, he doesn't want this voice to be sad, he loves this voice, this is his—

"Kate."

His eyes snap open and he tilts his head to look at her. There are tears in the corners of her eyes, and when she sees him gazing at her steadily with recognition, they spill over and she begins crying in earnest.

"Okay, that's good. Uh, are you alright now?"

Her voice breaks, and he feels his heart tear open at the sound. Carefully, he reaches a hand out and cups the side of her face with extreme tenderness. At this, her expression crumples and she ducks forward, huddling against his chest and throwing her arms as far around him as they can reach. It takes him a moment, thoughts still cloudy from the most intense memory he had experienced since they started returning, but when he wraps her in as tight a hug as he can manage, his mind rights itself in a way that he feels has been wrong for years. This is where he belongs, with Kate safe in his arms. Nothing else matters.

"Oh, Katie-Cat. I'm so sorry it took me so long. I never would have left you if I had the choice."

Kate is breathing hard, pressed against his side. Her mind has been reeling since this all started. Some part of her wasn't surprised; some part of her recognised, the moment she met him, that Milligan was special. He called her that name and, a part of her, however small, responded as naturally as a heartbeat. But then his face had twisted, and that strange mist that arose when he couldn't remember where he was and he was in pain and she couldn't do anything about it covered his eyes, and she'd been scared. He'd never had a memory flash that caused him this much pain or lasted this long, and the longer it continued the more scared she was. Normally, she could just talk to him, tell him about what they'd been doing that day, and in a few minutes the mist would clear and he'd look at her and smile. Even when the smiles were tired and pinched at the edges from residual discomfort, she never admitted to herself what they meant to her. That the fact that Milligan took the time to send her a signal, however small, that he was okay, and he knew who she was and where they were, was immensely relieving.

Because, even though she barely acknowledged it, she was always terrified that one of these times, Milligan was going to leave and retreat to that place where his memories were locked away and he wouldn't come back. She would look into his eyes and he wouldn't know who she was, he wouldn't remember meeting her or rescuing her on the island or their time together after Curtain or anything. And she'd be alone. Again.

Those were the thoughts growing louder and louder in her mind as she tried desperately to remember what he had told her last night about the stars and shoved down that fear that it would be her last memory of them having real conversation. That was the reason she began stumbling and choking on her words, even as the tightness in Milligan's posture slowly bled out as the pain from his migraine seemed to die down, and she slipped her hand into his, willing the melancholy, one-sided facsimile of comfort to give her strength.

She's striving not to cry when Milligan says her name, finally opening his eyes and looking at her, and when she saw that he knew who she was, he still recognised her and remembered her, it was too much. The Great Kate Weather Machine, who infiltrated secret labs and helped destroy the Whisperer and kept her friends safe during their time at the Institute, never cried. She was too busy saving the day and being strong for those who needed her. Kate Wetherall, who, regardless of who Milligan was and what he called her, regardless of what he had just remembered and what he would eventually tell her, has just got her dad back, and she can't stop the tears from coming.

[toneelspeelster]

painted tongue by taylor byas

[rad-roche]

LONG TIME COMING - Part I

Killing Eddie Winter has to be justice. If it isn't, it's something else entirely.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[themeraldee]

Can I get a wholesome little thingy of homie comforting his s/o that's like depressed what would he do? And give them snuggles? And although of course s/o giving homie headpats and caresses are top tier this time I want him to have to give headpats. Not because I'm depressed rn or anything (yes it is)

~1k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Established Relationship. Dealing with depression. Homelander's POV. Fluff. Just fluff really.

Something feels off when Homelander enters his penthouse. While he used to welcome the quiet of his home after he came back from events, this has recently changed. Ever since you’ve become a part of his life, any second spent without you feels like something’s missing. So it’s definitely out of order to get the same empty feeling when he's home. Usually you greet him with open arms or at least a ‘Welcome home’ shouted from another room.

“Babe?” Homelander calls out into the penthouse, the questioning tone reverberating through the open plan of his home. He knows you’re here. His question acts more as a reset, giving you a chance to play your role.

At your lack of response he quickly scans the room, seeing you in the bedroom. Very much awake but hidden under the sheets. So why wouldn’t you react to his presence? Shouldn’t that be something you look forward to?

You always do.

His mind runs at a hundred miles a minute. Even with the overwhelming positive effect you’ve had on his life it’s easy to fall into insecurity and despair, worrying about the worst possible outcome.

Homelander stops himself from rushing into the bedroom. But the slow one step at a time sinks the weight in his gut lower and lower. The anxiety of something being wrong has thrown him off-kilter. He doesn’t really know how to approach you when you’re distant like this.

So his over the top bravado will have to do.

“Heyyyy there sleepy head! You know it’s waaayyy too late for a lie in, don't you think?” He waltzes into the bedroom, hands on his hips, acting as if he was addressing a crowd. His voice is loud and clear, carrying a jovial tone that sounds a little too insincere even to his ears. 

He doubles down anyway. “If I knew you were planning to spend the entire day in bed I would’ve never left.” But, you don’t respond. He can hear your heartbeat, the slight rustle of the sheets and even the thud and glide of your finger scrolling down your phone screen.

When the silence gets too awkward for him to bear he peels the blanket from over your head, revealing you down to your waist. Immediately you squirm at the light coming from the outside after having your den of doom broken into.

Over the time that your love has blossomed into a relationship he’s gotten used to receiving comfort from you. You were there to listen to his countless rants and concerns. From the simple work related complaints to the horrors plaguing his nightmares. 

He should be able to do the same for you, right?

“Hmm… I’m just resting.” You sound dejected, empty. 

He swallows at the sound of you being so different. You’re missing the light that usually fills out the dark space in him. Homelander doesn’t know how to approach you. When’s the last time he’s had to comfort anyone? Truly comfort someone. Has anyone ever asked or even trusted him to be there for them?

Whether you’ve asked or not, he needs to be there for you.

It’s the least you deserve.

“Yeah right.”

He unzips his boots, setting them neatly next to each other before sliding under the sheets right behind you. He hooks his arm over you, pulling your back into his chest. And although you’re not reciprocal to his affection like you usually would be, the warmth he feels is enough to ease the anxiety in his gut.

He wedges his head in between your head and shoulder, watching with you as you mindlessly scroll through social media.

“How long have you been doom scrolling now?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head lightly against your shoulder.

 “I don’t know. A while I guess.” While you squirm in his hold your tone is still just as impenetrable.

“You’re not even looking at the screen!” When you don’t even react he frowns. “Alright, that’s enough of that.” He plucks your phone from your hands, turning and placing it on the bedside table away from you. He acts as a barrier between it and you, giving you no chance of getting it back. He rolls over back to you, greeted with the sight of you facing him.

Instantly he pulls you into him, both arms tightly around you with heavy comfort. It’s what he would’ve wanted in times of despair. It’s what you do when he seeks comfort. The whole body embrace where all he can focus on is you. It always grounds him.

He hopes it has a similar effect on you.

“What’s wrong?” He says. This time in a soft, low voice. No longer trying to put on a show. He’s meant to be there for you, not for a crowd.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it… Or if I even want to…” While you don’t sound like yourself, part of him is glad to hear your sadness. It’s better than the dejected empty voice. The closer you are to revealing your true sorrows the closer he is to getting you to feel better.

“Okay. You can… I don’t know, at least try to tell me something about what’s going on. Orrr, I will be reciting all of the amendments to the Constitution of the United States.” He’s gambling with the teasing tone of his voice but it pays off when you groan and giggle.

“Oh god no, not again!” 

“Welp, it’s your choice.” By now he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his lips. He gives you a soft squeeze.

“Alright, I can try.” You concede with a calm defeat.

“Good. That’s a start.” He kisses the top of your head, still holding and caressing you.

But most importantly, actually listening to you.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic):

@rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade @littlegaaby @jokesonyoupup

@nommingonfood @infinetlyforgotten @nervoussystemss

[wildsaltair]

Stalking Tiger

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: M (some non-descriptive spiciness, lots of angst and hurt/comfort)

Word Count: 8.6k

Author’s Note: It's time for some Spaniard adoration! This is actually part of a larger narrative (everything is the same except Maximus was single AU) in which reader is a slave sent to entertain Maximus in the gladiator school, but they end up falling madly in love and kind of living in agony day to day worrying that something will happen to the other. This is a really special story to me, and I hope y'all will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“I fight Tigris of Gaul tomorrow,” Maximus whispers to you. His mouth is right beside your ear, his breath warm on the side of your neck.

His words register with you a moment later, and you stiffen as you consider the implications. Tigris of Gaul is the only undefeated champion in gladiator history, known for his brutality and ruthless efficiency at killing. The thought of your love facing him is frightening, no matter how capable you know he is.

You’ve been lying with your back against his front, his arm wrapped around your bare waist securely, but you shift to lie on your back so you can see his face.

He moves with you and props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with such fondness that your heart nearly melts. He strokes your hair from your forehead with gentle fingertips, as if he’s forgotten the subject he just brought up.

“Tigris of Gaul?” you whisper back, knowing your eyes betray your concern. “They told you?”

He sighs softly, eyes tracing over your features with care. “Proximo warned me. He fears that it may be a trap from the Emperor. A way to ensure my death.”

You shudder. It’s no secret that the Emperor wants your lover dead, especially as his popularity among the people has grown.

And what would your life be without him? This Spaniard, this indomitable gladiator, has become your whole life. Months ago, you began as a stranger, a slave sent to entertain him for one night, but every time you look in his eyes, you see the love in your heart reflected in him. You are his hope, his peace, his joy, and he is everything to you.

He feels your shudder and draws you close, burying his face in the side of your neck while you wrap your arms around him. Neither of you needs words to communicate in moments like this.

He presses his lips tenderly to the side of your neck, once, twice, three times. His free hand touches your side and strokes your skin comfortingly, as if you were the one about to face possible death tomorrow.

“Are you afraid?” you breathe into his ear, gently stroking his bare back. His skin is so warm, so smooth between the scars.

He hesitates, just breathing against your skin, then his hand slowly slides up the side of your body. “I fear nothing,” he whispers, “except losing you.”

Tears well up in your eyes immediately at the sweetness in his words, the soft passion in his touch. His fingers trace the swell of your chest, the fragile length of your collarbone, the soft column of your throat. He is still nuzzling the side of your face with his nose, his eyelashes brushing your cheek.

These moments are treasures to your lonely heart — jewels you carry in your chest for the endless days when you are apart.

“Do you think Tigris will cheat?” you ask him softly, trying to think of how this fight might be rigged.

He kisses you again, with the pressure of a feather, just below your ear, and a tremble of pleasure runs through your body. “I am sure that the Emperor will have an added layer of danger to the fight. Single combat is too commonplace for an event such as this.”

He sighs when you drag your fingertips down his shoulder blades, tracing the faint notches in his spine. He dips his head so that his forehead is folded into the crook of your neck, his hand lowering to trace your curves again.

“You will win,” you assure him, though your heart pounds at the thought of him facing a battle already slanted against him. “You always win.”

His hand stops wandering and presses flat against your chest, directly over your heart. He can feel it pounding like a drum beneath his palm.

“I will win for you,” he murmurs, pressing his body more firmly against yours when you lay your hands flat on his back. “I will win if only to see you again.”

Again, tears rise in your eyes, threatening to choke any response you might have. He feels the emotion coiling in you somehow, wraps his arm around your waist to pull your bare body close against his. Your legs tangle with his, your arms hooking around his back so you can bury your head in his broad shoulder.

“Let me come watch,” you beg him quietly, already knowing the answer from many similar conversations.

He shakes his head vehemently, arms locked around you firmly. “No, my love,” he whispers. “I do not want to see what your master forces you to do, and I do not want you to see what mine forces me to do.”

“It’s different with you,” you insist, your voice breaking. “A thousand strangers see you fight every week.”

“You are not a stranger. And I would not have you see the side of me that has won me the favor of the people.”

You know the truth of his words, and in all honesty, you do not wish to see him fight. Despite your curiosity, the thought of seeing your beloved fighting for his life in an arena, facing insurmountable grotesque odds, while all around you people cheer for someone’s blood, makes you sick to your stomach. You know seeing him fight would only increase the fear you already feel for him every moment.

You kiss the base of his neck tenderly, and he responds as he always does: with a faint shiver and a sigh of pleasure. “I will honor your wish,” you promise. “But my heart will be with you every moment.”

“I know,” he breathes against your skin. “That is the thought that has carried me through many dark hours.”

Your designated time is close to being over, so you cling to each other with all the passion tethered in your hearts. Moments like these only serve to remind you of how easily all this happiness could vanish, of how fragile and dangerous such a love is. You are slaves, and your moments together can only last so long as the gods are merciful.

So you just hold each other, basking in the warmth of one another’s skin, and the steady beating of each other’s hearts, and the even cadence of each other’s breaths, perfectly in rhythm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A roar from the crowd. Deafening, then muted, then scattered, then horrified, then deafening again.

You are perched by the window of your room in your master’s house, your ear closely attuned to the sounds of the crowd in the arena several streets away. You would never violate your promise to Maximus and go to watch his match secretly, but you cannot help listening to the sounds of the crowd to ascertain how he is faring in the fight.

The crowd is chanting his name now, over and over like a refrain. He must be entering the arena.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

They scream his name, yell it like a battle cry. It is a chant, an anthem, a moniker for a fierce warrior and entertainer.

Only you know his true name. Maximus. Only you breathe and whisper and cry out his true name, night after night, cradled in his arms, in the intimacy of his bed, while he looks deep in your eyes and coaxes the sweetest pleasures from you.

And only you have the joy, the privilege of hearing your own name tumble from his lips again and again and again, night after night, when his head falls back and his eyes soften with pleasure and contentment while you thrill him with your own coaxing.

You have been imagining the match in your mind all day, wondering what will be awaiting him when he steps onto the sand. He is such a capable fighter, such an indomitable force, but every man has his limits. The Emperor, you know, will test each of them.

Another deafening shout, his name mingled with the screams of horror and fascination as the match resumes.

Your heart is pounding as loudly as you can imagine that it would if you were in the arena beside him.

You do not know when you will see him next — as far as you know, your master has not arranged for you and the other slaves to go back to Proximo’s gladiator school for at least another week — and you ache at the thought of having to wait that long to see him again. To hold him, to examine him for injuries, to whisper your love to him and feel his body pulsing with life.

You fear for him every day, but these days, the stakes are so much higher, the risks so much greater for both of you.

Another deafening roar shakes the whole street, and you pray silently to every god you have ever heard of that your love is still alive.

How long can this go on? This compassionate allowance to let you and the Spaniard share your love once a week or so? How long can you expect fate to be so kind, so merciful to let you find peace and surrender in his bed, in his loving arms, before one of you is ripped away forever?

Tears spring anew to your eyes at the thought. He could be killed, or seriously wounded and sent somewhere far away. You could be bought as a live-in lover or sent somewhere else permanently.

As it is, Maximus is the most successful gladiator in Proximo’s school and therefore the most likely to be allowed to have you continue coming to him on certain nights. You, on the other hand, have no such power, and your favor with the Spaniard can only last as long as he does.

But what would it matter? If he dies, all your hopes die with him. Your master can sell you as lion bait for all you care, if you have to live in a world without the comfort of your love’s embrace.

The crowd suddenly goes silent, and so does the beating of your heart. Your mind swims with the possibilities. Is he dead? Is Tigris dead? Has something even more unthinkable happened?

Your hands are clenched into fists, your eyes squeezed shut as you wait for something, anything, to give you a sign about what has happened.

The whole world seems to stand still as you wait.

And then, from several streets away, the arena erupts into cheers and screams: Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

And your heart sighs as you drop into a chair, suddenly exhausted from the strain of worry. The shouts continue to ring down the street, and people outside your window take up the shout as well, acclaiming Rome’s greatest hero since Caesar.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

All their shouts are drowned out by the beating of your heart and the relief that floods your mind.

He lives. He lives. He lives. And you will see him again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You are thoroughly shocked when a messenger from Proximo comes to you that night, requesting that your master send you to the gladiator school alone.

Your master’s look is skeptical and disapproving, but the weight of gold coins in the purse sent with the message prevents him from making any comments.

You slip through the front gate of the gladiator school in a matter of minutes, heart flying at the thought of what might be happening, why you could have been summoned here alone by Proximo himself.

You’ve heard what happened in the arena, of course. Everyone has been speaking of it all day. Maximus and Tigris of Gaul, evenly matched, fighting ferociously with swords and axes. Man-eating tigers leaping from hidden trapdoors, barely tethered by chains and swiping at the two fighters. The Spaniard, gaining the advantage and winning the match. Then defying the Emperor’s death command and sparing Tigris’ life, to the massive approval of the crowd.

Your heart swells with pride to think of it, as well as worry, as you slip into the main chamber of the gladiator school and wait for Proximo to appear.

Proximo is waiting for you, you discover, assessing you with cold eyes. “What is it that so fascinates him about you?” Proximo wonders aloud, scanning your body as thought he might find something everyone else has missed.

“He cares for nothing but you,” the gladiator trainer continues, pacing with a feigned air of casuality. “Every time I ask him what he wants as a reward for the fame and riches he brings me, he only asks for you. Over and over. Why?” Proximo’s question hangs in the air, weighty like a storm cloud.

You have no answer for him, of course, and he knows his questions are rhetorical. He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of the gladiators’ cells.

“Go to him,” he commands you with an odd air of defeat, as though you have somehow bested him by remaining a mystery. “He has won the day and the affection of the mob. Again. All he asked in return was for you to come to him tonight.”

Your heart soars as you fly through the hallway. The guard unlocks the cell door, and when the door clangs shut behind you, barely a moment passes before you have flung yourself into your love’s strong, welcoming arms.

Maximus holds you slightly off the ground for a moment, his face buried in your hair while he breathes you in. It’s when he exhales jerkily that you feel something wrong.

You pull back slightly, hands resting on his broad shoulders while he sets you back on your feet. “What’s wrong?” you ask, sensing his apprehension.

He shakes his head, gazing deep in your eyes as though he is amazed to see you. “I did not think Proximo would let you come,” he wonders, running his fingertips through your hair gently. “He must have been very pleased.”

“He was,” you confirm. “He said he was willing to offer you whatever you asked. And he was confused as to why you only care about me, instead of anything else he offers you.”

Your love’s brow crinkles into a frown at that. “He spoke with you?”

“Only for a moment. I think I puzzle him — he doesn’t understand what you see in me.”

Your words are light, teasing, but the Spaniard fixes you with a gaze that could melt steel. He tightens his hold around your waist, pulling you close so you can feel his every breath.

“Am I the only man with eyes to see you?” he wonders, leaning forward to press his lips lightly against your cheek. “Can it be true that no one else recognizes you for what you are?”

Your heart warms at his praises, because you know he means every word. Other men, including your master, see you as unimpressive, plain, suited for little more than gladiator entertainment. But to this man, this Spaniard who loves you so much more than his own life, you are a precious treasure whose every movement bewitches him.

You smile in return, and he lets his lips travel over your face — your jaw, cheeks, nose, chin. His tender affections are right in character for him, but you can’t shake your concern.

“Why did you ask for me tonight?” you ask cautiously, eyes closed as he kisses your forehead with the utmost tenderness. “You have never asked for me on a night when I was not already to be sent to you.”

He sighs, resting his lips against your forehead. For the first time, you realize that he is trembling slightly in your arms, as though nervous.

“I needed to be with you,” he says simply, dipping his head to rest in the curve of your neck.

His words worry you. Perhaps his fight with Tigris frightened him more than he is willing to admit aloud.

Wanting to comfort him, you stand on your toes and wrap both arms around his neck, stroking his back soothingly as he breathes into your shoulder. When his breath catches, a pained gasp escaping his throat, you freeze, afraid of hurting him.

“What is it?” you whisper, loosening your hold on him even as he cradles you in place.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, shakes his head slightly. “It is nothing,” he assures you. He thinks for a moment, strokes your spine with his warm hands. “I just needed to have you near tonight.”

Still concerned, you put your hands on his chest and push a few inches between your bodies. Looking into his eyes seriously, you ask, “Are you hurt?”

He gives you a soft smile, fingers tracing patterns on the sides of your ribs. “I am all right,” he says vaguely, not answering your question the way you hoped.

Still, he does not protest or stop you when you pull out of his embrace and step to the side to look at his back, which seems to be the afflicted area based on the way he flinched at your touch.

When you finally see his injury, you cover your mouth with both hands, eyes filling with tears of horror, anger, and sorrow.

His back is razed with four long claw marks, stretching from his left shoulder blade to his right hip. His tunic, although clearly fresh, has soaked through with the blood, staining the fabric a deep red. A series of small cuts on the backs of his arms, neck, and spine betray more abuse at the hands of his opponent.

Tiger claws. Your love was clawed by a tiger in the arena today, in addition to nearly losing his life to a fierce opponent.

And he seeks your presence as his comfort, you remind yourself. You are his peace, his solace, his only joy.

Your heart swells at that thought, but it aches and weeps at the sight of his terrible wounds, at the pain he must be enduring even at this moment.

He turns to face you, his eyes shadowed but soft on your features. “Do not cry for me, my love,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

You shake your head vehemently, pressing your lips together to keep from bursting out in emotion. “How can they do this to you?” you whisper harshly. “You have done nothing, yet they torture you with this terrible pain.”

“The pain is nothing,” he assures you with a gentle smile. “All I feared was that I might die without saying goodbye to you.”

Your heart breaks again, over and over, at the sincerity in his voice.

“You thought you would die?” you ask in a whisper, leaning in to his touch. He is still stroking the side of your face tenderly, but you are afraid to touch him again, to possibly worsen the pain you know he must be in.

He thinks for a moment, eyes trailing down to your lips. “I came closer to death today,” he finally admits in a quiet voice, “than at any other time in the arena.”

So that is the reason for this midnight visit, you realize. A narrow brush with death. The knowledge that he is not invincible. That he could have been killed by a stray swipe from a tiger. Perhaps his first real encounter with fear since he became a gladiator.

Eyes burning with more tears, you squeeze your eyelids shut and reach up to clasp his hand in yours. “I knew something was different about today,” you mutter. “I could sense it, even last night.”

He nods, still letting his eyes focus on your mouth as though afraid to meet your eyes. “The Emperor grows bolder,” he agrees. “More intentional.”

Again, your heart flips in your chest at that thought. The most powerful man in the Empire, with his sights set on death for the man you love.

“I am glad you called for me,” you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “I want to share in everything with you — your joys, your sorrows, your fears, everything.”

The look he gives you is so sweet, so tender, so full of gratitude and adoration, that your heart melts again.

He doesn’t speak, just cups your jaw with his hand and pulls you close for a kiss. Not wanting to hurt him, you rest your hands lightly on the inside of his elbows, stroking your thumbs over the sensitive skin. He sighs into the kiss, lips moving gently against yours.

When he tilts his head to rest his forehead against yours, you whisper, “Are you in pain?”

He hesitates, then presses another soft kiss to your lips before answering. “Not unbearably,” he whispers back.

Which is as close to admitting his pain as he will ever get, you know. Knitting your brow in concern, you tilt your head back to look up into his eyes. The top of your head is level with his chin, and he smiles down at you with such fondness and love.

“Let me take care of you,” you request quietly, stroking the sides of his face. He closes his eyes and relaxes into your touch, sighing in pleasure at the contact.

“I did not bring you here for that,” he counters with the faintest smile, eyes still shut as he basks in your gentle touch. “I only wanted to be with you. Do not worry about the scratches; they will heal quickly. Proximo vowed that I would not have to fight again until next week to give them time to heal.”

His words hardly reassure you, and you slowly run your hands down to the sides of his neck. “Let me take care of you,” you repeat, gazing at him passionately. “I want to.”

Your lover opens his eyes, and his expression softens even further. You can sense in his manner that he did not intend for you to care for his wounds, but that he is grateful and pleased that you want to anyway.

“Do whatever you wish,” he murmurs, leaning in again to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, “so long as I am close to you.”

What love could ever be sweeter than the tenderness he feels for you, that in his moments of greatest fear and pain, he longs for your calming presence?

When your lips part, you step out of the circle of his arms, ready to begin your job of tending his wounds. You survey him carefully, looking for any injuries you may have missed when you threw yourself into his arms earlier.

There are a few small cuts on his face and a bruise forming under his right eye, but nothing particularly grievous. You notice a slice across the top of his left hand, but it has been crudely bandaged with a linen strip.

Meeting his intense gaze, you motion for him to take off his tunic so you can get a better look at the tiger’s claw marks on his back. Wordlessly, he does as you ask. Watching him undress is nothing new for you, but when his tunic is off, the damage to his skin is even more obvious. Your throat clenches when you see the deep cuts on his back.

“You will be scarred from this,” you whisper, hands hovering over his back but afraid to actually touch him for fear of increasing his pain.

He smiles softly over his shoulder at you. “I do not mind the scars,” he teases you, “so long as you are here to ease the pain.”

His body bears further evidence of the fight now that you can see his bare skin. Deep cuts on the backs of his arms and shoulders, and one shallow one running down his side. He’s covered in bruises as well, from his breastbone to his ribs. Every time he breathes, you sense the painful movement of his bruised skin.

Another wave of emotion strikes you at the sight of his wounds. Your hand still hovers over him, afraid to make full contact, and he turns his head to look at you.

A moment later, he turns fully and wraps you in his arms, clearly ignoring the pain it causes. You bury your face in his bare shoulder, blinking back tears.

“I cannot stand to see you like this,” you tell him, your heart breaking as you think of all the pain he has borne. “I cannot stand to see what they do to you.”

He lays his cheek against the top of your head, rocking you back and forth in his arms as if you were the one in need of comfort. “They can do nothing to me that I am not fitted by nature to bear,” he promises you in a soft voice, the one that you know is reserved only for you.

You do not bother trying to argue him out of that philosophy, choosing instead to rest your hands lightly against his waist. He does not flinch, but his muscles relax at your soft touch.

Several moments pass in that way, just holding one another close, enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the world. Your times together are always so brief, so bittersweet, and your heart aches at the thought of having to leave him like this tonight.

I will make it worth it, you promise yourself. I will take away his pain, even if only for an hour.

Without a word, you lift your chin and look deep into the man’s eyes. He gazes back at you steadily, firmly, lovingly. His hands are feather-light on your waist.

Just as silently, the moment passes, and you take one of his warm hands in yours to lead him toward the bed. He follows you without a word, then sits on the edge of the bed when you indicate for him to do so.

His eyes widen in surprise, however, when you do not join him on the bed. Instead, you kneel down at his feet, between his legs, and lean forward to press your lips against his bare chest. Lightly, with the pressure of a breath, you kiss every bruise on his body — from his collar, to his breastbone, to his ribs, to his stomach. He breathes deep and slow while you trail your lips over his skin, never flinching as you take care not to press your kisses too hard.

When you have finished with his torso, you lean back on your heels and take his hands in yours. Still, he looks down at you with such wonder, such abject shock that you are paying these careful attentions to every inch of his weary body.

He nearly shivers when you press a kiss to the tops of his hands, then each of his fingers, riddled with cuts and callouses. All you want to do is shower him with the love you feel, the love you always worry you will never have another chance to express.

Over his palms, his wrists, his sensitive inner arms with pulsing veins, you continue kissing his skin with utter softness. He raises one hand to rest on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair.

Sitting up on your knees, you push yourself to be at eye level with his chest. Another brief moment of eye contact, his gaze searing into yours as your souls communicate without words — I adore you, I lay my entire life at your feet, for the rest of my life I am yours.

Then you rest your hands on his thighs, leaning forward to press your lips and tongue to his neck, right where he is most sensitive.

He does exactly what you want him to do — he shudders from head to foot and draws a quick breath, overcome by the pleasurable sensation. His hand is still gripping the back of your head, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair.

You still intend to care for his wounds, but right now, all you want him to know is how much you love him, how much you desire to pleasure him the way he always pleasures you.

Passionately, your lips move against his neck, and your whisper is so soft you wonder if he will even hear it. “Show me where it hurts,” you request. “Show me where to touch.”

He is so vulnerable for you in this moment, his body bared to you and his eyes closed, head tilted back while you explore his neck with your lips and tongue. It’s the most intimate position he can be in, with you so close to his exposed throat and heart. No one else sees him this way: no one else has his trust the way you do.

One of your hands reaches up to rest against his chest, which rises and falls more quickly as his pulse accelerates. The faster he breathes, the warmer his skin grows, and you grip his leg more firmly with your other hand.

His own larger hand falls to grip yours there. “Touch me wherever you please,” he murmurs, breathless and shivery. You are thrilled by the way he responds to you, and you can sense that this is what he needs now — to take comfort in your touch, in your love.

“I will be careful,” you promise, nuzzling his neck while your free hand rubs circles on his chest.

He moans, the softest, sweetest sound you have ever heard in your life, and he whispers, “I am at your mercy, my love.”

And, indeed, he is.

You are careful, just as you promised you would be. He seems to finally let down his guard in front of you now, to stop covering up the pain. You can sense it in his ragged breathing, his flushed skin, his faint winces when he leans forward or back slightly.

Wanting to help him release his tension but also knowing he cannot lie back or rest against the wall, you go back to your kneeling position on the floor. While he takes a deep breath, you lean forward again and touch your lips to his stomach. The muscles there are tight, but he softens and relaxes when you press kisses in a trail lower, his hips moving in an involuntary response.

You’ve reached his lower abdomen, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the pressure of his hand on the back of your head, when he stops you.

“No,” he whispers, voice hoarse with strain. A thin sheen of sweat has broken over his skin, and his eyes are glassy as he looks down at you, breathless.

You rest a hand on his waist again, stopping immediately. “Did I hurt you?” you ask softly, heart aching at the thought.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. “No,” he assures you. “It feels so good.”

You smile at that, leaning forward to kiss your way down his torso again, but he stops you a second time.

“Not that way,” he insists, and suddenly you realize what he means. He so rarely lets you get on your knees and pleasure him — just him — without regard for yourself. He much prefers for you to reach your pleasure together, both of you achieving rapture at the same time if you can. You’ve gotten into such a rhythm now that you can manage it nearly every time.

You want to ease his pain this way, to focus only on pleasuring him, but he won’t let you — not even when he’s throbbing and aching for you so badly. You should have known he wouldn’t.

“You can’t lie on your back,” you remind him gently, enveloped by the warmth of his gaze as he frames your face with both hands. “And if you straddle me, your cuts might open again. We need to be careful.”

He smiles back at you, stroking your hair. “We will,” he promises. “Stand up.”

You do as he asks, reminding yourself that you wanted to satisfy him tonight, and if this is really what he wants, you’ll give it to him. As always, you are struck by the selflessness of his gesture — he cannot stand the thought of simply using you for his pleasure if he cannot bring the same feeling to you.

He stays seated on the edge of the bed, but he pulls you close to him with his hands on your waist. Gently, and slowly so as not to inflame the scratches on his back, he lifts the hem of your shift and helps you tug it over your head.

Undressing you himself is one of his favorite parts of lovemaking, you’ve discovered. He delights in slowly uncovering your skin night after night, baring you himself, seeing your reaction to his first touch.

A moment later, his hands are gently pressing onto your bare body, gripping your hips to pull you forward. You finally understand what position he is angling for, and you climb onto his lap with his assistance.

And thus are your next moments spent. He drags his lips over every inch of your skin he can reach — your neck, shoulders, chest, collarbones. Every sensitive spot he has memorized, he attends with his tongue. His hands are tender on your lower back while he holds you in place, smiling into your skin each time you gasp and shiver at his touches.

When he finally pauses to take a breath, you seize your opportunity and do the same to him. He shudders in your arms, nearly comes undone for you when you lean forward, touching your body gently against his.

Every breath is in rhythm with each other, every movement perfectly in sync. While you press open-mouthed kisses to the curve between his neck and shoulder, he aligns your body right where he needs you, holding your waist with his strong hands.

He sets the rhythm, and you follow his lead while he moves you back and forth — always in control, even in this position. Sometimes he winces in pain or tenses when he pushes too hard, but he never stops his pace. He leans forward occasionally to kiss your lips or neck, and you let your hands wander over his broad shoulders, his heaving chest.

Unexpectedly, just as tension begins to coil in your belly, tears spring to your eyes. Even in the heat of passion, your lover looks up into your eyes with such sweetness, such tenderness.

Sometimes his eyes flutter shut when he gasps in pleasure, but he always opens them again, fixes his gaze on you while he makes love to you.

What could be sweeter than this? you wonder. To gaze deep into one another’s eyes while you pleasure each other?

There is no shame, no apathy, no indifference. There is only love in his eyes, sheer joy at being close to you, wrapped up in your limbs and heat and affections.

It’s true intimacy, you know, to have each other’s bodies memorized, and to still be content to look so deeply into each other’s eyes.

He reaches his release first, one arm tightening around your waist. He moans again, deep in his throat, and his head naturally falls back, eyes closed, lips parted. You drag your hands through his dark hair, swipe at the sweat on his temples.

He whispers your name, once, twice, three times, opens his eyes and looks deep into yours while he tenses and relaxes in rhythm with you.

You reach your own climax a moment later, encircled firmly by his strong arms, still moving in rhythm with his body, and you only have the strength to lean forward into his embrace, your head tucked into his neck, while you breathe his name over and over.

The moment is perfect, utterly perfect, in a way that only true lovers can experience.

You are still catching your breath when he dips his head against your shoulder, still breathing deep to recover from his intense release.

“I love you,” he murmurs passionately, “with all my heart and soul.”

You try to reply in kind, but his lovemaking has left you so breathless that you can barely make a sound.

But he isn’t finished. “I am yours,” he continues, lips brushing your neck as he speaks in a voice only meant for you. “All I am and ever will be is yours.”

“I know,” you finally manage to reply, breathless and soft.

“If ever I should die without saying goodbye to you,” he whispers against your throat, “know that I died loving you with my last breath, and that your name was the last word on my tongue, and that I will wait for an eternity until my soul meets yours in the afterlife.”

If you were not already overcome by emotion before, his impassioned confession brings you nearly to sobs. Carefully, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull his body fully against yours.

“My beloved,” you whisper, and he sighs softly at your endearment. “I have nothing to give you but my heart, and it has long been yours. My every heartbeat is for you alone.”

In the wake of your passion, sharing every breath and shiver in your close embrace, your feelings seem to spill over like a waterfall, and he kisses the base of your neck to hide his own surge of emotion.

“You are my only joy,” he tells you. “My only peace. My world is cruel and dark and brutal, but your light wraps around me and gives me something to live for.”

“And you,” you say tearfully, “are the sun in my sky. You are the first ray of morning and the last ray of evening. I have no light but you.”

He rests his forehead on your neck and breathes you in deeply. “I am yours,” he repeats, softly, like a prayer. “I am only yours for the rest of my life.”

Your response is to tighten your limbs around him and rest your head against his shoulder. No more words are needed, for you both can understand each other without speaking.

And in this silence, your lonely heart is comforted, his pain is eased, and your love is only sealed further by the sweet assurance you feel in each other’s arms.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You know you only have an hour with him, so once both of you have caught your breath and taken your fill of each other’s soothing touches, you finally disentangle yourself from him and sit down beside him on the bed.

Just as you feared, the deep claw marks on his back have reopened after your passionate lovemaking, blood trickling down his back again.

“If I thought reopening wounds could be so enjoyable,” the man tells you teasingly, “I would ask to fight a tiger every day.”

You can sense that he’s covering up his pain with the teasing tone. He is shaken — far more shaken than you have ever seen him — but he’s trying to be strong for you.

Sitting beside and slightly behind him, you are kneeling on the bed. You didn’t bother putting your clothes back on, as both of you have become so comfortable with one another that it seems to make no difference, especially since you’ve just finished making love.

Biting back the wave of emotion that threatens to overtake your words, you give a sighed laugh. “You do not need to risk your life for my attention,” you say, only half-joking. “It is yours whether you are clawed or not.”

After a brief look around the room, you find the one courtesy the gladiator school has provided your injured lover: a bottle of liniment. Fetching it from the table, you fold yourself beside him on the bed.

“Face the wall,” you instruct him softly. “I will rub this into your scratches.”

He does just as you ask without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. You can sense the tension in his strong frame, the effort it is taking to keep from betraying how much pain he is in.

Tendrils of blood are still running down his bare back, so you first wipe away the blood with the washrag on the table. He gasps at the first touch of your hands, then relaxes a bit at the relief.

“What was the purpose of giving you ointment,” you ask lightly, trying to distract him from the pain, “if your scratches are impossible for you to reach yourself?”

He relaxes a little more, a laugh shifting his position. “Perhaps they were counting on you to be my nurse,” he replies.

You only smile at his words, rubbing the liniment onto your fingertips and beginning to apply it to his skin. The tiger’s scratches are deep, ripping his skin from corner to corner. He tries to hide his reactions, but he can’t keep from jerking a quick breath anytime you press ointment into his cuts.

“Did anyone even look at your wounds?” you ask him, still trying to keep the conversation light but edging toward sensitive territory.

He breathes, deep and slow, before answering, his voice strained. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Proximo had them examine me after he saw how much I bled. The physician said he did not need to bandage me, so he just gave me the ointment to keep infection away.”

Another gentle press of your fingers, and he arches his back slightly in pain. You’ve only just finished tending the first scratch, shoulder to hip, so you pause and lean forward to press your lips to the back of his neck. He sighs contentedly.

As much as you despise Proximo’s gladiator school and its cruel treatment of your beloved, you take a small consolation in knowing that you are the one who gets to care for his wounds.

The thought of anyone else putting their hands on him, of anyone else seeing him undress and touching his body, is distressing to you. You know he is violated in so many other ways — forced into life-or-death situations every day in the arena — but you have always taken comfort in knowing that he does not suffer at others’ hands the way you do.

You push such thoughts from your head. Right now, all you care about is that he is yours, body and soul, and that he craves your gentle touch to ease his pain.

You resume your ministrations to his back, alternating between wiping away his blood and applying the thick ointment to his scratches. He works hard to hide any pain, your only indication being his white-knuckled grip on his thighs.

“Will you be able to sleep tonight?” you ask quietly. He usually sleeps on his back, but that will be impossible until his scratches are healed.

He just nods, clenching his teeth to keep from betraying his pain. You are rubbing ointment into the last of the four cuts, and you notice that he is trembling again, probably from the pain and the exertion of trying to hide that pain.

You finish as quickly as possible, then wipe away the last of the blood from his back. Eager to comfort him somehow, you lean forward and kiss him softly on the back of his right shoulder, where there are no scratches.

The shiver that runs down his spine, and the breathless moan he elicits, are like music to your ears.

“Are you all right?” you whisper, lips brushing his skin softly.

He draws another shaky breath, nods his head. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You simply lay your cheek against the back of his shoulder. You long to wrap your arms around him, to hold him close to your body and share your warmth with him, but the scratches make that impossible.

Instead, you indicate for him to turn around again, and he does so, moving slowly so as not to irritate his scratches again. When he is facing you, you begin using the washrag on some of his other injuries.

“Proximo is sending you back into the arena next week?” you ask, dabbing at the cut running down the side of his ribs.

He winces slightly but does not make a sound. “Yes. The Emperor has called for another holiday, and I will be expected to fight in the games.”

You press your lips together. His eyes have fluttered shut, and his hands are still gripping his thighs, all from the pain of you tending his wounds. You can’t imagine him being ready to fight again in only a week.

You say as much to him. “It is as though Proximo does not care whether you can lift a sword or not.”

He smiles sardonically, eyes still closed. “I finished the fight today after being clawed by a tiger,” he says lightly. “He knows I will do whatever I must to stay alive.”

You are grateful that his eyes are closed, because you can’t suppress the worry and sorrow that cross your face at his words.

Every fight brings him closer to his inevitable death, a vicious slaughter to the shouts of a fickle mob.

You bite back tears that threaten to spill over, determined not to burden him with your own pain.

“Who will tend your wounds,” you ask, “if I am not here for the next week?”

He opens his eyes at that, gazes at you deeply, as if suddenly remembering that no fights mean no nights with you.

“I do not know,” he says quietly. “It does not matter.”

It matters to me, you think, but you just give him a sad smile and continue your ministrations. Delicately, you wash the bloodied cuts that form a lattice over his neck and collarbones, then swipe the cloth over his bruises. He winces again when you press the cloth against his chest, and you reach out your free hand to steady him.

“Is it too painful?” you whisper. Your heart breaks to see him like this.

But he shakes his head, biting back the pain and smiling tightly at you. “No,” he assures you as you set the cloth aside. “You have no idea how much it means simply to be with you.”

His gaze swallows you whole, wraps you in an embrace that warms your soul. He lifts one hand to stroke the side of your face fondly, and you lean your face into his touch.

“I do,” you tell him coyly, covering up the wellspring of emotion in your chest. “Did I not just remind you that you are my one joy? My only peace?”

He drags his fingers down your jaw, your throat, the swell of your chest. His eyes follow his fingertips, and goosebumps break out over every inch of skin he brushes. A shiver runs up your spine while he traces his fingertips on your lower abdomen gently, almost without thinking.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, his lips pulled into a smirk. “You like that?” he teases, dragging one fingertip up the center of your body.

You can’t keep from shivering again, harder this time. The pleasure you just shared with him is still fresh, your skin still sensitive.

“You know I do,” you smile, arching your back. “I live for it.”

With a smile, he tilts his head to the side and continues tracing one finger over your most sensitive areas. He seems weary, you notice, especially after making love so passionately. His attentions are languid, curious, relaxed.

When his fingertips return to your face, tracing the shape of your lips, you raise your own hand and touch his chest lightly. His skin is still warm and flushed, and you press your palm gently over his heart.

It thunders under your hand. At the contact, his eyes close for the briefest moment, his lips parting, but he opens his eyes to fix you with a heated stare.

“It beats for you,” he breathes, swept up in the moment. “Only for you.”

He lifts a hand and presses it against yours, flat against his chest, while he just looks at you with all the love and passion within. Your own heart starts pounding wildly in response, and you impulsively reach for his other hand to press it against your chest.

You sit like that together for a few beautiful moments, just enjoying the familiar rhythm of one another’s heartbeats. One day his heart will stop beating, you remember unwillingly, and you’ll be left alone.

This is the burden of loving a gladiator: never being able to enjoy your time with him fully, because you always have that knowledge in the back of your head.

You push those thoughts aside again, determined to be strong for him the way he’s strong for you.

“It will not take long,” you murmur, leaning forward to press your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You will heal quickly.”

He hums in response, fingertips still tracing quiet patterns on your bare chest. “I will heal as quickly as I can so you can return.”

“Do not risk yourself only for that,” you warn him. “I would rather wait a bit longer than have you go into the arena too soon. You have to get your strength back first.”

“You are my strength.”

Your love bows his head then, resting it on the curve of your neck so he can breathe you in. Your hour is drawing to a close, and you are reminded once again that in his moments of greatest pain and fear, he only longed to be with you.

You can feel his warm breath on your neck, his hot skin burning against yours. The pain is catching up to him, you realize, and he needs to rest now. You know this, but your heart breaks at the thought of leaving him.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, tears filling your eyes once again.

He swallows hard, lifting his hand to cup your jaw. He’s still nuzzling your neck, as though basking in your warmth for the last time. “Beloved,” he whispers back, and his voice breaks, and you know that this time you have shared is different, more painful, more precious for both of you.

If only the rest of the world could see the Spaniard this way — completely vulnerable, intimately surrendered to the one he loves.

You trace careful fingertips over his shoulder, down his strong arm, then over his ribs, his waist, while he nestles his face against your neck. You wish you could hold him and comfort him all night, reassure him of your love every moment.

But the guard pounds on the door just then, signaling that your time is over.

He grips your jaw a little tighter, presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then releases you. If the look in his eyes is anything to judge by, he feels the same bereavement at your parting that you do.

You dress in silence, motioning for him to stay on the bed and not aggravate his claw marks. He watches you thoughtfully, transfixed by every movement as you put your clothes back on.

“Will you send me word?” you ask him quickly, in a hushed voice. “If your injuries worsen, I mean? Or if anything happens?”

His smile is faint, pained, but grateful. “Yes.”

“And you will not rush Proximo to put you back in the arena? You will wait until you are healed?”

“I will.”

You’re dressed now, just lingering because you don’t want to go. The guard pounds the door a second time, but you just can’t tear yourself away.

Taking a quick step forward, you stand before your love, cradle his face in your hands. You press a kiss to his forehead, and when you straighten, he is looking up at you with the sweetest eyes you have ever seen.

His gaze is one of peace, and contentment, and adoration, and tenderness, and longing, and a thousand other soft emotions that he only shows to you.

He tilts his head to the side, kisses your inner wrist as you caress his face.

The door slams open, and the guard loudly informs you that your time is up, but Maximus just holds his lips against your wrist for one more moment, feeling your pulse as it races at his touch.

Then he is releasing you, and you are walking backwards to the door, and even as the door shuts, you can read the message in his eyes.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[megpricephotography]

Favourites from November walks with Barney & Flynn, in years gone by.

[ebongawk]

the first time chrissy breaks smth at the trailer, maybe one of wayne’s mugs or smth, she’s spiraling like it’s the end of the world while eddie is like ???? baby things break all the time is this what living at the cunninghams is like

Crash!

Eddie jumped to his feet, snuffing his half-smoked cigarette and tripping over their hastily discarded clothes to grab boxers and rush toward the kitchen. Chrissy had just gotten up, pulling on his t-shirt with a shy smile over her shoulder after saying she wanted a glass of water. Eddie offered to get it (especially since her knees didn't seem to, uh, want to work properly, not that he was being particularly smug about that) but Chrissy insisted that she needed to stretch her legs.

Swinging around the doorway to the kitchen, he found Chrissy standing in the middle of the floor surrounded by tiny shrapnel shards of a mug. Sharp little landmines just waiting to dig into unsuspecting toes.

"Ah, shit," Eddie breathed, trying to assess the best path to her. "Don't–– Don't move, sweetness, one second, let me––"

He rushed into the living room before she could respond, yanking his Reeboks on and nearly falling on his ass when he tried to jump up too quickly. Laughing at himself, he walked back into the kitchen, trying to avoid the bulk of the ceramic and cringing at every slight crunch under his soles. Chrissy hadn't moved, her eyes down like she, too, was searching for a pathway among the mess.

"Alright, uh, just––" He hoisted her easily into his arms, protecting her bare feet by carrying her like Princess Buttercup through the fire swamp. Depositing her in the hallway, Eddie ducked past her, grabbing the broom and dustpan from the pantry. "Lemme clean this up, alright? You can, uh, go back to the bedroom if you want? I'll bring you some water."

Chrissy didn't look at him. She kept her eyes down, and Eddie followed her gaze, searching her skin for any small cuts he hadn't noticed.

"Fuck, baby, you alright?" he asked, crouching down by her legs, rapt eyes searching for specks of blood. He carefully lifted one foot, making sure her heel was intact before setting it down and inspecting the other. He looked up at her, wrapping his hands loosely around her knees. "Are you hurt?"

Chrissy still wasn't looking at him when she shook her head. Eyes shut tight, head turned resolutely away from him as Eddie slowly rose to standing. His palms climbed from her knees to her hips to her waist on the way up, and he squeezed gently.

"C'mon," he said softly, not quite understanding what was happening but hoping he sounded reassuring. Urging her back a step, he eased her into turning toward his bedroom. "Go sit, yeah? I'll be back in a minute."

Still silent, Chrissy turned and practically ran back into the bedroom. Eddie blinked after her for a moment before turning to the task at hand, grabbing the broom and carefully sweeping up the debris. Making sure to get all the corners under the cabinets to avoid any later mishaps.

He threw the pieces into a paper food bag before throwing them in the garbage to hopefully prevent anything from piercing the plastic. Smacking his shoes a couple of times over the can, he tossed those aside before grabbing another mug of water and walking back into his bedroom to see if Chrissy was okay.

She was dressed in her own clothes, quietly gathering up her belongings and folding them back into her overnight bag. Eddie stopped, feeling his heart seize in his chest. Ice slithered up his back, cold tendrils like fingers wrapping around his spine and holding him in place for a long, breathless moment.

Was she leaving?

"Chrissy?"

Back to him, Chrissy froze, her makeup bag hovered over her backpack.

"I'll, um," she began, her voice thick. Clearing her throat a little, she tried again. "I can, um, drop some money off for the mug later."

What?

"What?" Eddie asked, trying to shake off the glaciers wrapped around his ankles with a cautious step toward her. "Why would you do that? Baby, it's just a mug. Dunno if you noticed but, uh, Wayne has about a million of them."

"But I––" Her voice was heavy with tears. Whirling around, Chrissy dropped the makeup bag in her hand to the floor, looking up at Eddie for the first time as tears spilled down her cheeks. "But I broke it, Eddie. I was careless and I dropped it. I-I didn't mean to, I swear, I just––"

"Whoa, hey, hey." Breaking out of his hesitation, Eddie crossed the room, gently cupping her cheeks in his hands and wiping her tears away. She met his gaze, her big blue eyes swimming. A storm settling over the ocean. "Sweetness, it's okay. It's just a mug. I'm just happy you're not hurt, alright?"

"B-B-But you even offered to get it, and––"

"And it doesn't matter," he insisted, ducking to grab her attention when her eyes wandered away in shame. "I couldn't give less of a fuck about a broken mug if I tried, okay? It's just a mug."

Collapsing against his chest, Chrissy took in a hitched breath and let out a great sob. Eddie held her close, letting her cry her upset into his bare skin. One hand wrapped around her waist and the other buried in her hair. She clutched at him, fingers digging into his back like she was terrified he was going to change his mind and decide he was angry.

What in the fuck went on at the Cunningham household that would make her respond like this?

After about a minute, her cries quieted, though her shoulders still trembled against him. Eddie kissed her temple, lips tracking down to her cheek before he pulled back far enough to wipe the remainder of her tears away.

"Will Wayne be mad?" she asked, her voice small and her eyes so terribly scared.

"Nah," Eddie reassured her. "Wayne probably won't even notice it's missing."

Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say. Her face crumpled, eyes filling all over again.

"We have to tell him!" Chrissy cried. "W-We can't hide it, Eddie, what if he finds out and gets even more mad––"

"Hey," Eddie cooed softly, trying to keep his voice from quavering with the anger that suddenly surged. Not at her, of course, never at her, but what the fuck was wrong with her family? "We'll tell him, yeah? But I swear, baby, he's not gonna be mad. It's just a thing." Gently urging her chin back, Eddie looked her directly in the eye when he said, "Things break all the time. That's a fact of, like, general product ownership."

"But," Chrissy whispered, falling back into his chest. "But what about the set?"

"Uh. What?"

"The set. The set of mugs. It'll be incomplete now." She looked at him again. "Do you know where I can buy a replacement?"

Eddie blinked at her. "I'm, uh, pretty sure that was, like, a novelty mug he got at a truck stop. It's not part of a set."

Her bottom lip warbled. "So it was important to him? A memory?"

"God, Chrissy, no," Eddie couldn't help it – he had to laugh a little. Gently, he eased her down onto the bed, sitting beside her and pulling her halfway across his lap. "And even if it was? It's not important enough to throw a fit over if it gets broken. It's just stuff, baby, they're just things." He shook his head, resting his chin on her crown when she snuggled into him. "You can't own stuff without expecting to lose or break it, that's not how accidents work. I've broken probably two dozen mugs in my lifetime."

Her voice was so, so incredibly small when she asked, "So you don't want me to leave?"

"Baby, you can stay the rest of your life if you want," Eddie vowed, his voice laced in jest but meaning every goddamn word. "Or, y'know, just until we get the hell out of this town."

He felt the slight curl of her smile where her cheek was pressed over his heart. Wondering if she could hear the new uptick through the wall of his chest.

"I-I'm sorry. I just... I didn't want you to yell at me."

Taking a slow, deep breath, Eddie closed his eyes to keep from cussing out the phantom of Chrissy's mother that seemed to have its claws stuck into Chrissy's brain.

"Listen, I am never going to yell at you," Eddie promised. Letting his fingertips drift up and down the length of her spine. Giving her hip a soft squeeze with every pass. "And if I do? You have my express permission to hit me."

"Eddie––"

"I can't promise I won't like it, though."

"God," she snorted, falling into a fit of giggles. After a moment, she let out a deep breath, the warmth of her anxieties bleeding across his skin as she exhaled them from her bones. "Thank you for being so good, Eddie."

His scalp prickled in pleasure at her compliment. Forehead falling against her crown, Eddie took his own shaky breath in, slowly breathing out as he pulled her even closer.

"Shit, sweetness, for you? Anything."

[usagifuyusummer]

Best friends or something...

Feeling so much like a dead corpse lately. It's probably the stress of the semester... and being mistreated/ underappreciated a lot. Still, I'll manage.

Happy Valentine's Day to those who celebrate it, by the way! It's a coincidence that I drew something mildly mushy on the occasion, lol. It wasn't really my intention. Just gotta let these thoughts (Toxic YAOI LMAO) about them out, and then I can get back to business. If you're confused, that's just how I draw younger Jimmy and Curly. What an odd pair of friends(?)...

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

wanted to try my hand at a fake screenshot thing with a scene from one of the bttf fics of all time, Time Is a Flat Circle by @fourth-dimensional-thinker! i set in to draw only the "little canary" line but. as you can tell. my hand slipped and fell down a 6 story building

if you haven't read it already please check it out PLEASEEE it's very good. i read the whole thing in basically one sitting. the vibes are perfect for the spooky season too!

versions without the filter/subtitles under the cut:

[illmoraineakoi]

If the theme for AvA Season 3 is really "Your actions have consequences"...

I am genuinely curious to see what the consequences for Victim's actions will be.

Both Alan and Chosen are reaping the consequences of their actions. How is Victim going to reap his own?

How is all of this going to backfire on him?

And at what point will he realize he's gone too far, that he's made a mistake? That he's become someone he never wanted to become?

[pynkhues]

(x)

Oh my gosh, okay okay okay, anon, I've had a few wines after a friend popped by unexpectedly, sorry in advance, but she's gone now so hear me out, haha. I'm putting my crime scene investigations hat on and I can tell you after watching the scene *mumbles indecipherably* times, Lestat has at least two visible bites in the scene on his throat, not one. We all tend to look at the one on the left, but he actually has one lower on the right too.

I feel like I'm presenting evidence in a court of law right now, haha, but I've lightened the cap a bit, so hopefully you can see the one we're all normally talking about on the left here, but then, on the right, you get a hint of blood? (And you can actuall see it in that gifset too)

And when he tilts his head towards Claudia, oh! There it is! Second bite:

Which brings me back to the scene itself, and I hear you, I think maybe it was meant to be the upper left bite scarring there, BUT I'll also counter with the very fun (to me, haha) argument that the first bite we saw through the window was actually a different bite entirely given Louis seemed to go for the join of Lestat's neck and shoulder, which in the aftermath scene, would be covered by his shirt.

In other words, I think Louis bit him more than once, and I want to have been a fly on the wall in the make up team's meeting as they decided when and where to place the bites / bruises / wounding.

But anyway, YES, I love on soooo many levels that the show broadcasts that they have insane sex in Lestat's lover's house, probably break her bed, given the bruising, only for Louis to immediately take Lestat home and declare it's time, after five years, for a family meeting? Deranged behaviour! And he's there smelling at the very least like the Mississippi River and clearly glowed up from vampire / soulmate blood after years recovering on a strict animal diet, and Lestat's there looking well fucked and fed on, and their daughter is forced to just sit there and act like this is Completely Fine. A resentment probably aggravated by the fact that we know Louis threw Lestat's coffin out the window, so presumably they're sharing one tonight! She deserved to murder them both so many times over, but honestly never more so than this night!

[jullbnt]

@aikoiya The post was getting long again so here's a new one!

I knew you were going to answer that saying "this is unfair" isn't real life logic haha (and I agree that life hasn't been fair to Sky and Sun anyway). It's just that such an ending would probably leave me feeling unsatisfied and even a bit robbed, and I think it would require a lot of other changes to be made to the story in order for it to work properly. But anyway you're right, as things are now this would just be happening behind the scenes so what I'm saying doesn't really make sense. But just thinking about it changes my perception of SS in a way I don't really enjoy, so it's not a theory I favor.

Yes in that setting I'm pretty sure that the other Sun would not make herself known to Link and Zelda and would let them have their happy ending. But I think Zelda would likely suspect her existence and know that something is wrong. I guess even Link could notice that the Temple's doors are suddenly open and would ask Impa a few questions.

I had no idea Tingle called Farore the Goddess of Wind in WW, so I went on a little quest to see if I could find the same quote in the French version of the game. Apparently it's in Tingle's description of Outset Island and I never had the chance to play with the Tingle Tuner mode. I can't find the same quote in French anywhere and I don't even know if this was included in the HD remake (I guess I'll have to wait for a Switch version to find out… if they ever release one). This has me wondering if this quote isn't something exclusive to the English version, but I can't be sure and I'd like to know what the original Japanese text says. The French wikis mention that Farore is the Goddess of Wind in WW but don't provide any quote, it just looks like the pages were translated from English but that they couldn't find the same quote in French. It's really frustrating!!

Anyway that's a bit weird because WW already establishes Zephos as the God of Wind, and he seems to be a minor deity compared to Farore. The way I see it, wind is just the element that Farore tends to be associated with, and since a lot of myths might have been lost with Hyrule in WW this could just be a mistake on Tingle's part. I mean this is the game that gave us the Golden Triumph Forks haha.

I'm not limiting Nayru/the Golden Goddesses to a singular domain, quite the opposite ^^ To me Nayru being the Goddess of Wisdom includes different concepts such as order, law, science, magic, etc., and even time (since she's introduced as the creator of the world's fondamental laws), while calling her the Goddess of Time doesn't include all of that. That's why I wrote that I found it a bit restrictive. But sure she could have both titles, the same way Farore could be known most commonly as the Goddess of Courage and also called the Goddess of Wind in some situations.

Oh I didn't think of the blocks from OoT! I would say though that they don't really use any time powers, they're just random blocks that appear or disappear for some reason when Link plays the Song of Time (it's just as absurd as playing the Song of Storms to open holes in the ground haha). But yes they were blue and associated with time, and of course Nayru is too. The difference with Hylia in my theory is that Nayru created the rules of time (if that makes sense) among other fundamental laws, while Hylia's power specifically allows her to manipulate time and foresee the future. In a way I see Hylia as Nayru's spiritual daughter who inherited some of her powers over time (and that's why the color purple she's represented with is very close to blue).

The Master Sword has also been depicted as either blue or purple though, so that asks the question of the true color of all of these things! Nayru is definitely linked to time so it makes sense that the timeshift stones are in Lanayru (and Hylia also doesn't have a province named after her).

"From the edge of time" could definitely just be a poetic way to say that Hylia kind of recorded a message for Link before dying haha. But I find it interesting that she would phrase it like that, I like to see it as a clue.

Well if Zelda simply sent Link to a point further back in time, wouldn't there be two Links existing at the same time in the Child Timeline? But sure Zelda creating a brand new timeline also raises a few questions that kind of... make my head hurt. I'm not sure what happens exactly, I've always wondered! All we know is that Link finds himself in the Master Sword's chamber with the Door of Time already open, which hints at things happening in a different way this time (because he definitely doesn't have the three spiritual stones and the Ocarina of Time yet since this is before Ganon's coup, and the ending seems to imply that this timeline's Zelda doesn't know him yet). That's why I believe Zelda might have done something a bit more complex than sending him to a point further back in time, but there's no way to be sure. The Triforce of Courage is also visible on Link's hand during the ending, and we also know thanks to TP that the Triforce is still separated in the Child Timeline despite Link and Zelda preventing Ganon from entering the Sacred Realm this time. So maybe Zelda isn't able to change everything? It's complicated haha.

Anyway, whether OoT Zelda creates a new timeline or just sends Link further back in time, that's still huge time powers and that's not something Link is able to do by playing Zelda's Lullaby.

I also believe it is more likely that Talon inherited the ranch. True, Talon might not always have been so lazy, but maybe if that was the case the game could have hinted at hit. All we know is that he leaves his daughter alone with Ingo and only comes back after Link deals with the situation, which does not make him look so great. And he only promises to work harder after that.

I'm kind of bad with names so I'm impressed you're going through all of that trouble to rename the settlements!!

I haven't gotten to developping the technology that much yet, but I'm really interested in seeing what the different races could do with it! I love the idea of using the Sheikah to infiltrate the Yiga bases. I wish TotK had done something like that and shown the Sheikah helping Link that way.

Same, I was so excited when I heard about these pirates… and then so disappointed to find nothing more than a bunch of bokos with no backstory.

Vignoble is not related to noble (though I kind of make the association in my mind, especially since vignobles are sometimes called châteaux).

Yes I thought you could maybe use clos! Aquaticlos is funny, it can work! Though maybe you could use the same logic as for the raisins (I love this Raisins de Terre idea by the way, it makes sense!) and say that what the Zoras call a clos already refers to something that's underwater, since that's probably the case for most of what they cultivate.

I don't mind helping you with French, I'm glad to do so! You put so much effort and thought into this, it's really interesting.

[yourlowkeyidiot3]

Salty rant v2

This is basically me angrily screaming about Ford again (wow what a surprise) to a wall (myself, my rotten brain and my blog) so feel free to skip this

Fuck it I'll bite

Gf fans when you tell them Ford had every right to be mad at Stan for ruining his Project (he saw it as the only chance to prove himself and get accepted in his dream school, and even tho WE know it was an accident, Ford doesn't he thinks it was a purpose sabotage and it really doesn't help that Stan didn't told him which resulted in him making a fool of himself Infront of ppl he wanted to impress and then Stan tried to pass it off as something that didn't matter even tho it mattered so much to Ford, like of course he'd be mad everyone would be mad in his position)

Gf fans when you tell them it's not Ford's fault that Stan got kicked out it's all Filbricks fault (seriously guys, blame the fucking abusive father, not the 17 year old living in an abusive household)

Gf fans when you tell them standing up against an abusive person (especially if they're your parent) is hard to do for yourself let alone for someone else

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wasn't the "golden/favourite child" Filbrick dgaf about him and only wanted to use his intelligence for money and both Ford and Stan were abused just in different ways (seriously find a different dynamic to describe an abusive household than "golden child" and "scapegoat" I say as I put a gun in your head)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wanting to go to college isn't egotistical

Gf fans when you tell them Ford wanting to make a name for himself doesn't make him egotistical (he literally grew up in an abusive household, and was bullied and treated like an outcast for most of his life, him seeking out validation is a trauma response not egotism)

Gf fans when you tell them if Ford is petty for correcting Stan's grammar then Stan is equally as petty for refusing to hold his hand over a thank you literally seconds ago (of course he had the right to want him to thank him and be mad, but it was the END OF THE WORLD, they are both responsible in that scene)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford isn't ignorant for being manipulated by Bill cuz 1) Bill is a master manipulator who's managed to manipulate and terrorise humanity since forever using lies/flattery/fear 2) despite having a high IQ he has a low EQ and therefore isn't able to tell if someone has ill intentions due to being....an outcast and therefore doesn't have the social skills to be able to tell others true intentions/manipulations which made him an easy victim for Bill (do u guys even know what manipulation means)

Gf fand when you tell them the reason why Ford didn't try to reach out to Stan was because he thought he was doing fine since he had seen an ad of his on tv (he had no way of knowing Stan was still homeless anymore, and you don't usually see homeless people's ads on tv), not because he didn't care

Gf fans when you tell them Ford didn't force Fiddleford to do shit for him, and that he was against the use of the memory gun and wanted him to get rid of it but Fiddleford literally erased his memories of it so he could continue using it. And that therefore Ford isn't to blame for everything that happened with the memory gun just cuz Fiddleford had bad coping mechanisms. (Seriously you all are acting as if he pointed the memory gun on his head and forced him to abandon his family and build him the portal. No!! Fiddleford made those decisions himself he could had left Gravity Falls at any moment and return to his family but no he didn't, he chosed to stay and start a fucking cult. That is on him. Not on Ford)

Gf fans when you tell them the way Ford acted during the time where he was literally being abused, manipulated and isolated by a demon is way more complex and naused than "ego! ego!".. because he was literally being abused and manipulated...

Gf fans when you tell them the reason why Ford called Stan to hide his journals wasn't because he only wanted to use him as a way to fix his mistakes but because he was literally really desperate and feared for the safety of the world and he didn't have anyone else he could trust and that he was hella traumatized due to being literally tortured both physically and phycological and sleep deprived and on the bring of insanity (of fucking course he wasn't gonna act logically and say mean shit he didn't actually mean, he was losing his mind! Stan had also said mean shit to him because he was angry but nobody talks about that)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford being mad at Stan for opening the portal is understandable, because 1) he literally ignored all the warnings that the portal could potentially destroy the whole world and 2) he was literally about to FINALLY killing Bill after 30 years of fighting for his life in the multiverse to try and find a way to

Gf fans when you tell them Ford's trust issues are completely understandable because he was literally betrayed, manipulated and abused by the "person" he trusted the most (Bill). And the other two people he trusted did something that hurt his trust on him (Fiddleford erasing his memories, Stan ruining his project)

Gf fans when you tell them Ford's and Bill's relationship isn't "toxic yaoi/messy divorce!" And that it was incredible abusive and that FORD was a victim ( average gf fan claims they "don't romantize/support the toxic ((call it abusive guys, that's literally what it is)) elements of this ship I just like to explore unhealthy dynamics in fiction:) *proceeds to make 10 posts of "he fucked the triangle!" jokes and gets mad at you if you actually point out the abuse and makes 100 aus where they get back together/stay together*

Gf fans when I tell them that I really don't care about what Alex has said about Ford being "egotistical" or "ignorant" because that's also the same guy who said he didn't intended for Pacifica to come off as a victim of abuse because controlling your child with a bell is total normal parent behaviour guys (/s). (I stopped listening to most of the stuff he said after that, not gonna lie, cuz most of the stuff he says about Ford's "ego" and "ignorance" are flat out victim blaming) ((I mean come on guys, he literally says he based Ford's and Bill's relationship off REAL LIFE toxic relationships he's seen and then he goes and says shit like how it's Ford's own "ego and ignorance" fault that he's ended up in that situation. Don't you guys think that's a bit weird))

[robby-bobby-tommy]

Well, ig it's time for me to talk about one of my favorite lores and streamers at this point.

Fit MC of 2B2T and his tragedy.

Honestly, when I watched the launch of QSMP I was full on Philza watcher. I never knew Fit before, but I was charmed by his voice, humor and friendship with crow father. And honestly I never even expected any lore from him, so when his first lore stream happened I was pleasantly surprised! So, I really want to express how much I love Fit's lore. It's not in your face and has a lot of subtle hints and build up. Honestly, it's not an essay but rather an expression of true admiration of masterful story telling in form of incoherent ramblings.

(I'll try to compose it, but I can't promise it'll always be coherent)

So let's start with quick review of his lore. FitMC of 2B2T is, evidently from the oldest anachy server. It's described as wasteland, where you can't trust or be trusted. Once he was approached by a person, whom Fit can't remember. It was a contractor who sent our favorite war criminal to the Qsmp with a mission to steal player data. Everything up from there is in vods.

Well, it is a great start, isn't it? At this point we have a very sad start. Practically no trust and emotional connection to anything. The eternal destruction, explosions, deaths and betrayals don't teach you anything different. So once he came to the server, I imagine, Fit didn't care about anything but mission. Player data and that's all, but right from the start this mindset started to change because of the greatest misfortunes of any mercenary or a 2b2t player. Emotional connection.

So now let me break this up into some sections.

Philza: you really thought I won't bring him up? As a greatest (platonic) Fitza/Wallflower duo enjoyer or just a Phil watcher, I couldn't leave him out of this post. I really think that Fit's learning started with crow father. From the start we know that they're at least are acquaintances. But throughout all this months they grew into something more. Philza's trust is hard to get, but if you get it this'll be worth it. Yet Fit got it. Throughout the good old days of Qsmp, when everything was easier, Fitza always were together. No matter was it a life threat or a camping trip with kids, they're with each other. Trusting to each other enough to letting each other in eggs' homes. And after feces hit the fan, it didn't change. A person, who was taught to never trust a soul and to survive no matter what, was standing there, saying "I'm with you, Phil" In the midst of attack. The trust between them is just incomprehensible. A paranoid hardcore survivor and a war criminal, with a lot of secrets and separetion anxiety, became best friends. If anything goes South for Phil, Fit'll be spying, controlling situation. If a wise crow ever starts loosing his sense of reality, this soaked in blood hand will lay on his shoulder, reassuringly. And it isn't one sided. If Fit needs anything Philza instantly passes him it ("You're too good to me"). Phil shares everything he can with Fit and even trusted the Dream to him. And Fit even had a small separation anxiety attack, just cuz Phil was gone for a few seconds. They are so close, Fit even considered letting in Phil on his purpose, Aaaaah... They're gonna be the death of me. Philza learned Fit friendship/ platonic love.

"You [Phil] and I [Fit].... We walk into churches and they burn just by our presence."

Ramon: the baby boy made in heaven by God himself. There's so much to be said here. Once again, coming into the island, Fit never expected to connect with someone, especially to have a son. After having a rocky relationship with Spreen was left one on one with a child. The absurdity of situation is just as laughable, as ironic. A man, who's hobby was killing kids with no back thought, was now stuck with a child, having no idea of how to raise him. And, honestly, he did pretty good! He gave Ramon freedom, but always was here, close enough to help if needed. Of course he wasn't the saint, yet he always tried to be as honest as he could, even letting him on the "Family secret". Ramon loves his dad, and it's obvious by how he helps Fit with his job, building him a communication with his contractor. The little one even taught this cold person to be kinder and more open. They only have each other. And Fit is ready to do anything if it means he'd get to leave with his baby boy by his side. Also I don't wanna hear a scrap about 2b2t historian not caring about his son's disappearance. He does. After behaving and distancing himself from his past antics, he decided to burn the ship, where Ramon lost his first life, just to avenge his baby. He visits his sons house every stream, looking if maybe he came back. If you want any prove of how much they care about each other search Ramon's graduation. They made each other better and their love is just aaahhh. I love them. Ramon taught Fit parental love.

"Baby boy, made in heaven, by God himself.."

PacTW: the last, but not least, Pacman himself. Oooh, love, oooh, lover boy.... Now, I haven't watched a lot of their interactions, but from all I've seen they're suuuuper in love/crush. All those little glances to each other, protection, quality time... Honestly, I think these two videos explain everything. They trust each other and at least have a crush on each other. And once again, there're a lot of small moments that prove this point. Fit having a small panic attack over not seeing pac for a few seconds and even helping to find Walter Bob and Mike. And Pac, no matter how much he loves Mike, didn't drop Fit after the latter was accused of being a traitor. Love is blooming, and even though it's "baby steps" These are still steps. It takes a lot to relearn trust and especially this kind of intimacy, when all you knew before was war, betrayal and lie. And thus Pac taught him love and trust.( I'm not big on shipping but every time hide duo hug my life gets a little better).

"Baby steps, chat. Baby steps. (Puts roses Pac gifted him)"

But, why did I call Fit and his fate tragic, and then just list all the good interactions Qsmp gave him. After all he experienced at 2b2t , this island seems like a heaven. But, Fit was, is, and forever will be stranger at the paradise (this man is way too good at presenting lore. Even music gives us soo much things to think about... I love it.). No matter how much Fit loves people around him and feels this being reciprocated, he'll never have this full closure. He knows and believes that once everyone knew his mission, they'll hate him. Even people I listed before. He'll never be fully honest with anyone (apart from Ramon), and no matter how people love him. Fit truly feels for Baghera, when she told him about her past and her fear of telling it to BBH. It is literally what he struggles with. This dialogue has a lot of good foils and parallels. The fear of their past, full trust/ forced lie, darkness/ light, and eventually positive outlook. Baghera was eventually able to trust Bad with her secret, yet Fit wasn't. But this paradise spoiled this war criminal. It made him more trusting, more social. Fit can't now be alone, cuz he connected with people. This server, though is full of secrets, lies and danger, is still a paradise. A heaven on earth for a lonely man...

So the last part of this long ahh post is about his desire. The one thing that convinced Fit to go to qsmp. Freedom. Which he doesn't have. By making this deal with Contractor he fell into the trap. He must to find this player data, or else he'll return to the world he tried to escape. For forever. With no way out. But once he came to the server, Cucurucho will never let him go. So he's now in double trap. Yet the biggest trap is Ramon. He's prepared to sacrifice everything for his baby boy, and can't leave the island without him. And without Ramon Fit wouldn't be able to contact the contractor. So in creating connections, Fit traps himself further.

I can't really call it a character analysis, but it's all I see in Fit's lore. A very lonely war criminal, that got so tired of distrust and destruction, that he agreed on a spy mission. But once his mission started he learned how to love and care, that he trapped himself further. Love isn't a miracle that saves you, but it's a very useful tool. Once you learn to understand and reciprocate it, life may become better. (Sorry, it's super cheesy, but I think it encompasses Fits character very good) .

Fit is a spy. They're not supposed to have a family and love, because they can't stay for long. And I think at first, Fit saw everything and everyone as just a means to an end. Just the player data. But after all that has passed he can't be the same. He has a son, friends and a possible love interest. Will he be able to still continue his mission? Will he still betray them and they're trust? I don't know.

But I now I love how cc! Fit does his lore. It isn't so in the face and doesn't affects other, yet it is so layered. Everything is so important down to the music choice aaaaagh. I don't even pretend to analyse everything in his lore like contractor, memory loss, head aches and ect.

I just love it. It's marvelous.