#russel crowe fanfiction

[drivinmeinsane]

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

※Chapter Two ※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { previous chapter }

※ Summary: Even during the most wonderful time of the year, Holland March can't help but be clumsy. A stressful hospital trip to set the detective's re-fractured arm leads an unfortunate revelation about his relationship with Jackson Healy.

Part of the Butterfly Effect collection. Can be read as a standalone.

※ Rating: 18+ for mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Fluff and Angst, Smut, Established Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Injury, Canon-Typical Alchohol Consumption, reference to religion, Typical Idiot Holland March, Insecure Jackson Healy, Collaboration, first time anal sex, lotion as lube,(Seriously do not use lotion as a personal lubricant), Holly just wants her dads to get their shit together, mention of Christmas

※ Word count: 3,474

※ Status: Complete/Multichapter, Chapter 2 of 2.

※ Author's Notes: Second chapter of the collaboration I did with @danime25. It's always a pleasure to cook with someone else. <3

It’s the harsh beam of sunlight boring through his eyelids that wakes Holland up. Without opening his eyes, he rolls over in the bed and reaches out for his partner. His hand makes contact with nothing but slightly cool air. It’s so jarring that he’s instantly awake, staring at the space Jackson Healy that has been occupying every single night without fail for the past few months.

Scenes from the night before flash in his mind and he can’t quite suppress a groan. He can only hope that the other man is still in the house and not in his crappy apartment above the comedy club that had turned into an office space rather than a place to live. Surely they can fix whatever the hell went wrong between them.

The detective awkwardly scrambles out of bed, all too aware of his injured arm. He goes through his minimal morning routine feeling as though he’d been run over and left for dead in the street. He hasn’t felt this battered since the Amelia case that had brought Jack into his life to start with. Roughly wiping his damp face off with a towel, he finally steps foot into the living room.

His knees want to buckle in relief when he spots the other man standing in front of the coffee machine. Holland has to rein himself in to keep from rushing over and wrapping his arms around him, seeking reassurance that everything is all right between the two of them. Instead, he takes a seat at the breakfast bar. His cast makes a heavy thudding noise against the counter-top. Healy doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound.

Pulling a cigarette out of the pack resting on the counter, Holland observes the shorter man. He puts it between his lips and lights it. While he contemplatively takes a drag, he watches Jack take two mugs out of the cupboard and pour them both coffee. Despite last night, the other man is careful to leave Holland’s black, doctoring his own with a heaping spoon of sugar and way too much creamer. Healy picks up both mugs and places the PI’s down in front of him before taking a seat at his side.

“Holly left a note. She’s at Jessica’s. Wants us to figure our shit out,” the other man says as a greeting. Holland just nods, tired.

“So, my head is a little hazy from last night,” he says around the dangling cigarette, “but did we break up or something?”

His partner’s hold noticeably tightens on his coffee cup, almost enough to shatter the ceramic, before he relaxes his hand. When he speaks, his tone is bitter. “What was there to break up? Two men can’t be in a relationship, March. Last night at the hospital sure proved that.”

“C’mon Healy, you don’t mean that,” his voice catches in the back of his throat.

If Jackson says another hurtful thing like he just did, Holland is going to have to show him the door. He knows how he feels about the other man. Society be damned, if loving Healy is wrong, he sure as hell didn’t want to be right. He knows they’re doing to face vitriol over their relationship, but he knows there are other people like them. Hell, there is that politician in San Francisco… what was it…? Narancia? It was some kind of drink. Thinking out loud, Holland mumbles, “Juice?”

“It doesn’t matter what I mean. I can feel however I wanna about you, and it still doesn’t change things,” the other man responds while Holland thinks. After a lengthy pause he looks at him, confused. “What the hell does juice have to do with this?”

“Huh? Oh, there’s this politician. His name is some kind of drink…”

Healy puts his face in his hands and lets out a hopeless little chuckle. “Jesus, March… What do you want from me?”

That is enough to snap him back onto the topic at hand. “I just want us to go back to what we had… even twelve hours ago. When I could kiss you and you wouldn’t flinch away like I was trying to kill you. Shit, I just want us to be together without all of this .” He waves a hand in the air, his cigarette tucked between his fingers.

“I don’t want you to wake up down the line and realize you wasted your time on someone who doesn't legally matter. I can’t be there for you and Holly like a woman could. I’m the worst possible option for you.”

“And how many times do I have to tell you? That doesn’t fucking matter. I love you regardless,” he snaps back, hackles up. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t realize he said the thing that he’s been struggling to say for weeks. It dawns on him and he winces. It’s too late to suck the words back into his mouth.

Healy is deadly still. So still that Holland would even take a slap across the face if it meant that the other man had heard him. His cigarette burns to the end of the filter and he snubs it out in the nearby ashtray. He doesn’t look at his partner

Finally, the silence is broken by the bruiser's audible swallow. “You don’t mean that, March. You can’t waste that on me.”

“No, I do mean it!” He shouts, getting up from his seat to pace. Holland gets more worked up with every step he takes. “Damn it, Jack, I love you.”

Much to his trepidation, his partner also gets to his feet and approaches him. Jack stops short and clenches his hands, self-soothing. The grizzled man looks unsure, very much unlike the image of himself that he presents to the world. “I want what’s best for you and your daughter.”

“You’re what’s best for us. Look at everything positive that has come out of this. Holly thinks of you as another parent. I think of you as a partner. What I want is you .”

Jesus, he could use a little liquid courage. Even without, he still bridges the gap between the both of them and kisses the shorter man, arms firmly around his neck to keep him close. Holland meant every single word of his outburst. He breaks the kiss, anxious. “I love you so much, Jackson Healy.”

His words are finally enough to get Healy to turn the affection. Holland can’t help but sag with relief as the other man’s arms wrap around his waist and hold him tightly. They’re forehead to forehead, breath intermingling. “I… I love you too, March.”

“You better,” he quips before ducking in for another kiss. This time it’s eagerly returned. He smiles into it, nipping lightly at his partner’s mouth. He pulls away, trailing his fingers from the nape of Healy’s neck to his stomach. He toys with the hem of the other man’s shirt. “You know… there was something we were going to do last night.”

“Right, and then you went and broke your arm,” Jackson says, carefully deadpan.

“Well, yeah… But we can make up for that now.”

He’s pleased when he receives a low sound of agreement and a squeeze on the hip from his partner before the man sets off in the direction of the bedroom. He might be hopelessly needy for Jackson Healy, but at least the other man was equally as infatuated with him when he wasn’t having a crisis. If anyone was going to be panicking, it should be March. It’s his role in this ragtag little family.

On the way to the bedroom, Holland starts working to strip himself of his clothing. With his daughter out of the house, he doesn’t have to be nearly as modest. He lets his pants fall the moment the door is closed behind him. Healy is immediately crowding him against the wood. The other man’s hands with their scarred knuckles slide underneath his shirt and pull it off his head to reveal his soft body. The detective feels something tender well up in him at the careful way his partner extracts his re-fractured arm from the sleeve. Soon, he’s left in just his underwear and socks.

Healy is panting in his ear, sloppy kisses laid in the crook of his neck. He groans at the feeling of the other man’s facial hair scraping along his sensitive skin. The knee that the shorter man just wedged between his thighs is going to speed things up more than Holland would like He feels like a live wire, ready to spark at any moment. Reluctantly, he pushes at his partner’s chest with his good arm, shoving him backwards until he nearly falls on top of him when the backs of Jack’s knees make contact with the bed and he goes down onto the mattress.

With a clumsy hand, Holland strips the prone man of his sweater and his undershirt. His dick twitches with an almost painful throb in his underwear the minute the other man’s upper body is exposed. Holland desperately wants to grab hold of his shoulder and rut against his partner’s stomach until his cum is matted in the dense trail of hair adorning it, but there’s something he wants more. He clamors up onto Jack’s jean-clad thighs, legs spread wide to accommodate the girth. He presses his forehead against the man’s broad shoulder so they don’t have to make eye contact while they discuss what he wants.

“Uhh…” he starts, not very eloquently.

“Yeah, March?” Healy's newly placed hand is a soothing weight on his back.

“I know we usually give each other handies or blowjobs…” he trails off, scouring his mind for the words he needs. He fails. “Maybe we can do something more?”

“… Like using my chest?” He questions, referencing one of Holland’s earlier requests. The first one he’d ever made.

“Actually… more inside than that,” he clears his throat, thankful that the other man cannot see his flushing face. Holland has seen enough porno content while on cases. They both have holes, surely his partner can pick what he’s implying here.

“March…” Healy trails off, sounding strangled, “you want me to take it up the ass?”

“ No! I want you to stick it in me. Have me take you up the ass.”

“Oh… Yeah, yeah, we can try that, but… I haven’t y’know.”

“Well, neither have I.” Holland shrugs a little bit, not too concerned. He trusts his partner enough to not hurt him.

Finally, he peels himself off of the other man. He scrambles to find a comfortable spot on his back beside him before stripping off his boxers and throwing them onto the floor. Jesus, what he’d give for a drink right now, but Healy doesn’t fuck around with him unless they’re on equal footing when it comes to being sober.

With less confidence than he’d like, he mimics the position he’d seen once playing on a television screen at one of the more questionable places he’d questioned someone at. His legs are spread, inviting Healy to kneel between them. The other man does. Through half-lidded eyes, Holland watches him swallow and run a nervous tongue over his lips. He leaves his arms at his side, wanting him to take the lead. He’s willing to be moved around like a Ken doll by Jackson’s hands

Holland is not disappointed by the other man’s initiative. He can’t contain a moan at the feeling at the warm hand wrapping itself around his soft cock, stroking it into hardness. His pleased noises get swallowed up by Healy leaning over him to press his mouth to his. Both men are wedged together with hardly enough space for the bruiser’s hand to work at him. Holland is the one who has to break it off to draw in heaving breaths, he’s already leaking copious amounts of precum over Healy’s knuckles.

Without pausing the steady movements of his wrist, his partner checks in with him. “You doin’ alright? You’re never this quiet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Holland responds, staring up at him. He feels his face flush again. Healy looks better than he has any right to after a night of presumably sleeping on the couch, but this was his guy. His partner. Of course he’s going to look good to the PI.

“Let’s do this already. We need lube…” He glances around the room for something to use before spotting a bottle of lotion on their bedside table. “The lotion is probably the best we’re gonna get.”

Without preamble, the other man leans over just enough to pick it up. Holland’s teeth end up worrying at his bottom lip as he watches Jack slick the fingers of his right hand until they’re pale and streaked. They two of them are as ready as they’re ever going to be for this.

His hole easily accepts the intrusion of Healy’s finger. He moans, throwing his head back into the pillow and arching his body. “Yeah, that feels good. Feels really good. Fuck .”

That finger feels even better when the other man pumps it in and out of him. He can’t keep himself still. The second only heightens the sensations he’s feeling, finally giving him enough of a stretch that foreshadows what’s to come. The detective nearly leaps off the bed when Healy’s otherwise unoccupied hand reclaims it’s place around his dick. That touch is all the warning he gets before the other man leans down and takes the head of it into the wet plushness of his mouth.

“Jesus!” He yelps. His hands are gripping the sheets, clinging onto the fabric like it’s a lifeline.

In response, his partner takes his cock further, almost deep enough to gag on it. Holland swears he’s seeing stars as he feels the bruiser’s tongue trace along the underside of his shaft. He’s still fucking into him with his fingers, daring to add a third. The lotion is just barely doing its job. The detective feels almost full.

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, panting. It’s taking everything in him to not sink into the arms of his building orgasm.

At his warning, Healy pulls off. He stills his hands and looks up at his face. “Do you want me to stop? I can finish getting you off like this. Don’t have to go all the way.”

“No, I'm fine. Just hurry.” Holland's voice catches in the back of his throat, giving his words a whimpering quality. Something hungry flickers over his partner’s face.

“Okay, let me just…” Healy trails off, sliding his fingers free of the tight heat of Holland’s body. He unbuttons his jeans and unzips them. His dick looks engorged and flushed, twitching and tapping against his ample stomach. He slicks it down with copious amounts of lotion and takes himself in hand. He pauses with the tip of his cock just slightly pressing into Holland. “You ready?”

“Yes .”

Slowly, with a series of pauses, Healy eases his thick cock into him. Despite opening Holland up with three of his large fingers, it’s still a tight fit. The other man bottoms out, snugly seated inside of him. The sensation of his stomach brushing against his still very interested dick has him smothering a whine. He feels full, pleasantly so.

“Are you doing okay?” His partner asks, concern lacing his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds, “Jesus, I never realized how big you were until now.” The sentence slips out of him without his permission. He tenses up as he realizes what a weird thing it was for him to say. He could slap himself right now.

Healy doesn’t look upset, though, merely flustered. The other man clears his throat and offers him an unusual compliment in return. “You feel really good, March.”

Holland relaxes when his partner rubs a soothing circle over his hip. Perhaps sensing that he’s starting to get impatient, Healy starts to move, a slow drag of his cock nearly all the way out and bottoming out back in. He settles in to a relaxed pace. Instinctively, the detective’s back arches ever so slightly, angling so that the other man’s thrusts plunge deeper. He’s still hanging onto the sheets.

Lightning strikes him when he feels the head of the Jackson’s dick graze over his prostate. Before he’s fully aware, he’s cumming in messy spurts over the bruiser’s stomach. The resulting clench of his hole around his partner serves to drag him over the edge right along with him. Both men are shaking and muttering broken words as they empty themselves.

Shuddering from the stimulation as Healy pulls his softening cock free with a wet sound and extracts himself from their tangled position, Holland can’t help but fumble for the bedside table. His hand manages to hand on a loose, half smoked cigarette still sitting in the ashtray. Good enough. He lights it and gets it between his lips the moment he finds the lighter he keeps next to the table lamp.

“Fuck, March,” the other man groans.

The detective just nods in agreement, stricken silent for once. He had liked that, liked that way more than he probably should. He wonders if his partner would be willing to let him ride him next time.

“Didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, it felt fantastic actually,” he says. Despite feeling fucked out and limp, he leans over and kisses the other man’s stubbled cheek.

His reassurance must sooth the other man because Healy hauls himself off the bed with a groan, back popping. He heads into the en-suite bathroom to clean himself up before returning to the bed with a damp cloth. He carefully wipes Holland down much to his appreciation. It saves him the hassle of moving his cast-bound arm more than strictly necessary.

“Thanks,” he says softly and snubs out the cigarette.

He sits up enough to pull the other man into the bed beside him once they’re both clean. It’s the most natural thing in the world to tuck himself against the broad man, to feel him wrap an arm around his back and hold him close. Holland is on the cusp of telling him that he loves him again when his partner speaks.

“So… I wanna apologize,” the other half of the Nice Guys Detective Agency starts.

“What do you mean?” He asks. He thought they were squared up, that they were good again. Sure, he wasn’t upset at getting an apology, but it felt worrisome. Healy won’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to focus his gaze on the ceiling tiles.

“I was an ass after the hospital. I was a pansy and didn’t handle it like I should’ve.”

“Yeah, you were… I know you said some of the things that were bothering you when we were fighting, but what got you so worried about us?” Holland follows his line of sight up to the ceiling.

“The nurse reminded me about how I can’t be there for you when it matters, y’know? You broke your fuckin’ arm and I just had to sit in the waiting room. ‘Sides, I don’t know how to be a good partner. I did so badly with my wife she left me for my old man.”

Oh , Holland thinks. His partner had felt helpless. That would explain a lot actually.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, patting the other man’s shoulder. “I’m not very good at it either. Hell, I still don’t know how I managed to get Holly’s mom in the first place.”

“She must’ve been a very patient woman,” Healy jokes dryly..

“Like a saint.” Holland responds in kind, mildly miffed at the implication that he’s a difficult person to be with. He hovers his hand over Healy’s hair before combing through it.

The other man lets out a groan and shifts enough to sling a thick arm over his stomach, settling against him more comfortably. “It’s a good thing you didn’t get the catholic school treatment too. We’d be even more cataclysmic.”

“You’re excused?” Holland makes a face as he tries to decipher what fucking word just came out of Healy’s mouth. This feels like their ‘eunuch’ schtick all over again. He tries to quietly mouth the word ‘cataclysmic’ and make sense of the word before his partner starts to talk. Again.

“It’s like ruination,” he supplies, not bothering to open his eyes. He’s dozing off.

“Maybe Holly can buy me a dictionary next year, and I’ll be able to understand you for once.” Holland grumbles. Jackson fucking Healy everyone. He shakes his head. “We’re getting off track… you were apologizing?”

The only response he gets is a loud snore from Healy. He’s actually asleep. Out like a damn light.

“Love you too, pal,” he grumbles, feeling more fond of the man using him as a pillow than he’d ought to be.

{ previous chapter }

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

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

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

[fawninthesnow]

Could you please do a femme dom reader x emperor commodus fic ? :)

Eeee!! This was so much fun! <3 Thank you!

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧: One shot

𐙚 Emperor Commodus x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+

Summary: You are the empress of Rome, married to the immature, Commodus. After an outburst, you chose to ignore his horny pleads.

Warnings/contains: fem dom, sub emperor, sub male, smut, oral (fem receiving), degradation, alcohol consumption, obsession, not proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 1.3k

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

He paced the edge of the balcony, looking down at the distance between him and the stone path. “Bring her in.” The emperor spoke bitterly. The throne room doors were thrown open and a guard walked behind you.

The shackles around your wrists rattled as you walked, a leather gag between your teeth. Your dress flowed naturally with every step. You did not need to speak, the hatred for him cut through your gaze. You did not attempt to talk, that would only make him laugh. You were not here for his entertainment, regardless of his intentions.

“Come closer.” You stood straight, your two feet were planted on the tile. “Come here!” You shifted your eyes away from him and to the tanned guard who led you inside. A rather sly smile on your lips as your disregarded the man. “Bring her here, dammit!” The guard, now with pink blush over his cheeks and nose, pulled you closer to the emperor. Commodus grabbed you by your throat, pulling you close enough for your nose for touch his, “You will respect me in my palace. This is my empire, and I demand respect from every man, woman, and whore! Now, you will love me! You will love me, [Y/n]!” He gripped your neck tighter.

You laughed, a bit a saliva leaving your mouth due to the gag. With a struggle, you pulled off the gag, your wrists felt raw from the strain and weight of the shackles. “Someone undo these.” You turned away from him.

“Look at me!”

You continued to look away from him, “Get these off of me.” You said softly to the guards around the room.

“Yes, my empress!” One guard ran to your assistance and unlocked the shackles.

“I will have you killed.” Commodus angrily spat. “I will have you killed!” He leaped at the man, a hiss sound from his mouth.

You moved the guard from the way, “Commodus, leave the room!”

“You do not tell me what to do.” He said, keeping his gaze on the guard who you so calmly protected.

You ignored him and received a warm woven coverup from a servant. “Ignore his outburst. I am going to turn in for the night. Please be sure my fireplace is ablaze.”

Commodus turned to the sight of you leaving the throne room. You were so unbothered by him, unfazed—beautifully so. He sneered at the loss of attention from you. He huffed; his heart began to thump rapidly in his chest.

He quickly followed you until you reached your corridor. He peeked around the corner of your quarters, looking inside. You warmed yourself by the fire and gently rubbed a soothing cream over your wrists. The windows in your room were covered and every corner had a small pit of wood burning to keep the space warm.  “…May I come inside?”

You looked over your shoulder at the man who faced his feet. “Do not come any closer than the entrance statues.” You said rather dismissively.

“May we talk?”

“Now you are civil? Do not make me laugh, Commodus.” You said with amusement. “You have the temper of a small child, and the patience of a rich man. I guess that is fitting because you are one.”

Commodus clutched his fists before frowning, “You have said.”

“Yet you do not listen.”

“I apologize, [Y/n].” You waved a hand of dismissal and continued to prepare for bed; your attention on anything but him. “I mean it this time! I truly do!” He went to his knees as you rubbed oils into your skin, massaging African shea butter into your palms before spreading it up and down your legs. “[Y/n]? Please. Please?” His laments echoed throughout your chamber; his hand dared up your soft thigh.

“Stop!” You slap him across his cheek, “You whore!” You stood above him, a look of disgust on your face. “I want nothing from you. You are a disrespectful, worthless boy!” He basked in the pain from your slap, soaking in the heat of the moment. “You do not deserve a dammed thing from me.” Your fingers held onto his jaw, a tight grasp that marked his face red. Your nails were long, manicured and your skin was smooth. Your beautiful face so close to his made heat rise from his loins to his cheeks. “You know the only reason I maintain composure is to please your father’s wishes, rest his soul! I do not want to see your face, Commodus.” His manhood grew stiff and sensitive beneath his clothes.

He clenched his jaw in your hand, a deep gulp made his Adams apple shift downward. “But I missed you.”

“That is not the way to bring me back to the palace.”

“You ran away from me!”

“You are paranoid. Get out of my sight.” He remained at your feet; his hand rose to your hips. You slapped his cheek again. The man bit his lip, letting his palms rest on the marble floor. “You lack discipline. Your father could not give it to you. Now that I am here, you seek some sort of sexual relief from me?! I am not your common whore, you bastard!” He looked up at you with his deep blue eyes. The reflection of fire in his full irises.

“I love you, [Y/n]. You are my empress.”

“That is right! I am! So how dare you embarrass me?! Embarrass yourself!” You let go of his face, your nails scratched his face as you left. “Go with your whores, leave me be.”

“Please…please, my love.”

“I am not your love, you dog.” You spat down onto his face. He moved his tongue and fingertips, moving your saliva into his mouth. “You are filthy.”

“I would do anything for you.”

“No, you would do anything *to* me. You are unwell. Sickened with power.” He nodded, rubbing the side of his face against your hip. From his robes, his shaft grinds against his thigh slowly. A pleasurable moan left his lips as he continued. You moved away from him and sat on the plush chair across from the fireplace, your feet rested on an ottoman.

“Please, look at me.” You said nothing, shifting your eyes towards the door. “I do not want to leave, [Y/n].” His voice cracked, leaving him embarrassed. “Please.” He continued to rub himself, however, deriving little to any pleasure from it.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and sipped from it. “You are pathetic.”

“I am.” He continued to stare at your beautiful face as you drank.

“You deserve nothing from me, might I repeat.” You finished off your glass as his head lay on your lap. His fingertips pull at the fabric of your dress, shifting it away. “I was a princess back home. I had more freedoms than I have now as Empress.” You mumbled rather to yourself as he buried his head between your thighs. You paranoid fuck…” A moan slipped from your mouth as his warm tongue circled your clitoris. Your thighs tightened and raised in shock. “W- wh-“

His head hid under your dress as he suckled on your firm clitoris. You could feel your womanhood throb with need upon feeling those sensations. “I- I’m sorry.” You held the back of his head, keeping him still. His tongue was quick and skillful as it flicked against your clitoris. His thumb gently held up the hood of your clitoris; barely moving. Your thighs trembled; an unsure panting left your lips.

Commodus moaned back as your warm walls engulfed his tongue. His nose pressed against your clit; his lower face now wet with your mess. “C- Commodus! I h- hate you!” He could not see your face, not that you wanted to see his, as two of his digits slipped into your slippery cunt. Your fingers tore into the upholstery of your seat. His tongue lapped and sucked on your clitoris as his fingers dug deep inside of you. The pads of his fingers pushed up onto your sensitive spot.

You felt yourself climax over his fingers, however, he continued. Your cunt pulsed with pleasure. “M- my empress.” The man muttered as he suckled softly on the center of your clit.

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Thx for reading!! Happy new year! <3

Frohes neues Jahr, meine lieben! Ich habe diesen Monat eine neue Serie und kann es kaum erwarten, sie zu teilen! Mwah! <3

[shakebelton]

you know it's funny russell crowe has only ever done one actual gay movie in his career but So Many More of his movies feel kinda gay. like 3:10 to yuma, the nice guys, master and commander, american gangster... all pretty gay. obviously can't forget les mis! (my first tumblr blog a decade+ ago was about russell crowe and les mis). even gladiator is kinda gay although that's mostly joaquin phoenix's doing. LA confidential he has something gay and toxic going on with guy pearce... then virtuosity is another. like even romper stomper feels like he's jealous of the other guy in a kinda gay way. half his movies are toxic enemies being gay and the other half are enemies to bromance speedrun. much to think about

[10464john]

3:10 to Yuma Fanfic Ideas!

Have you just seen 3:10 to Yuma (2007) or rewatched it, only to look on AO3 and realize, "There isn't a wide variety of Fanfiction, damn it's more empty than my wallet!" Well, if you're in the writing mood or need plot ideas, I've got you!

(These can be used for more than just 3:10 to Yuma, but using it for 3:10 to Yuma would be so amazing.❤️)

Wade and Dan living together to 'help' Dan pay rent💀😭

3:10 to Yuma but Dan survives and becomes changed by the overall experience while Wade becomes a good person since Dan has broken his perspective on the world.

Dan dies and Wade tells his story(can be written in many different ways)

Dan survives and takes care of Wade's injuries that he gained from the whole trip to get to the train.

Modern Au where Ben Wade is part of a motorcycle gang and Dan is whatever job you think he should have.

Alice leaves, Wade and Dan raise William and Mark😱

Coffee shop AU! But Dan works at a coffee shop and Wade is an artist or just goes there to draw. (Can take place in a modern au or in the original setting time)

Ben Wade and Dan Evans are just friends who travel together after 3:10 to Yuma (with Dan surviving.)

Wade is nice to Dan but Dan doesn't like it too much because it makes him feel inferior (can be applied to listed fanfic ideas)

Brokeback Mountain.

I'm sure you can tell all of these are Dan x Wade. If you guys want Dan x Alice, or a different ship, lemme know, I can also try to come up with other shops than Ben Wade x Dan Evans.

[sweetrays]

Before Rufio became my main boy to torture via cardiac arrest, Crowe!Javert used to be my main man

I wrote about him drowning in that fucking river so many times, you wouldn't even be able to count. 😭 (cue Jean Valjean suddenly able to preform CPR)

||tmi warning||

Sometimes I wish I had normal whump fantasies when it comes to fic writing but 99% of my life, male resuscitation has been my go-to. Idk why.

Russell Crowe in  Les Misérables

The man belongs to you

[ofmdrecaps]

07/11/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Rhys Darby; Taika Waititi; Erroll Shand; Nathan Foad; Vico Ortiz; Madeleine Sami; Ra Vincent; Dominic Burgess; Darby Family Foster Kittens; Rose City Comic Con; Adopt Our Crew's You Bear Fine Things Well; PA In Person Events; Fan Spotlight; Love Notes; Daily Darby/Today's Taika.

== Rhys Darby ==

The Hungry Games: Alaska's Big Bear Challenge is live on Peacock! Rhys had several articles mentioning it-- as well as some great reviews you can check out below!

== Taika Waititi ==

Taika is out in Piazza del Popolo -- in Italy! He was directing the Indoor Garden Party there, featuring Russell Crowe, The Gentleman Barbers, and Lorraine O'Reilly!

Source: giorgiociccanti Instagram

Some behind the scenes of the show!

Source: RussellCrowe's Twitter

Annnnnnnd.....Another fun interview with Taika and Jemaine talking about their old friendship and Time Bandits!

Source: Cairn's Post

Special Note: Apparently Rachel is also in Time Bandits! I didn't know that either, I love how many of the AoNZ crew are!

Source: Rachel House's Instagram

And finally, below, a behind the scenes shot of Taika and Jemaine from Time Bandits!

Source: Fotc_fans Twitter

== Erroll Shand ==

A rare appearance of Erroll! This was from Day 1 of the script read through for Season 2 of 'The Twelve'!

Source: StevieCruzMartin's Instagram

== Nathan Foad ==

Some shots of Nathan from Jan - Jun this year!

Source: laurenecarse's Instagram

== Vico Ortiz ==

Season Finale of Date My Abuelita First Podcast is up! You can listen to all the episodes of Season 2 here!

Source: DateMyAbuelitaFirst Instagram

== Madeleine Sami ==

A few days old but this was a fun clip of Mads and the Deadloch Crew from the Season 2 announcement!

Source: PrimeVideo AuNZ

== Ra Vincent ==

A rare sighting of our dear Ra Vincent, showing some love for his previous and current projects<3 "Just when you thought you’d reached your favourite all time project another new favourite comes along. #timebandits #artdepartment #ourflagmeansdeath"

Source: Ra Vincent's Instagram Stories

== Dominic Burgess ==

Our good friend Dominic, Jeffrey Fettering, is up at a crazy hour! Hope you get some rest Dominic!

Source: Dominic Burgess' Twitter

== Darby Family Foster Kittens ==

More kittens! Rosie is keeping us appraised of these adorable foster babies!

Source: Rosie Carnahan Darby's Instagram Stories

== Rose City Comic Con ==

News from Rose City Comic Con! Rhys and Matthew will be joining Kristian and Vico! Will you be in Portland OR in September? For guest and ticket information check out:

rosecitycomiccon.com/guest

rosecitycomiccon.com/badges

Source: RoseCityComicCon's Instagram

== You Bear Fine Things Well ==

07/11 was the day all! The Hungry Games have gone live on Peacock! Our fantastic crewmates over at @adoptourcrew have been keeping up the hype with daily themes! "Day 3: Which fictional bear do you think would join the crew of the Revenge?" I'm a day behind on this but Rachel, aka bbviago on twitter was kind enough to submit Fozzie From Muppets Treasure Island! (someone I would have also submitted!)

Source: bbviago's Twitter

"Day 4: Vote for the Hungry Games Bear you think will win!"

The Bear Madness was busy all day over at @adoptourcrew headquarters and on twitter! It was close there for a while but Quad Mom won the day!

Source: Adopt Our Crew Twitter

== In Person / Online Fan Events ==

= Philadelphia PA: Calypso's Birthday =

Are you near Philadelphia, PA? Consider stopping by Tattooed Mom for games, crafts, and fun Saturday July 20th! 6-10 PM!

Source: FerventRabbit's Twitter

= PA: Spoken Word Porn-A-Thon Fundraiser =

CW: NSFW! Do you like NSFW fanfiction? Do you like helping out Queer Fundraisers? Well look no further! Some of our crewmates over at Harold & Maude's in Millvale PA will be writing smutty fanfiction (some OFMD, some not!) which will be read at an in-person/virtual event in return for donations to benefit the Queer Resource Center of Millvale! The event will take place at 7 PM on July 18th! Don't have the funds right now? You can also enter to win a pair of tickets for you and a friend by tagging a friend on Queer Witches instagram! Each tag is one entry into the raffle! The winner will be pulled on 7/13! Visit the QueerWitches website to purchase tickets!

Source: QueerWitches/Harold's Haunt/ @ringasunn on Instagram

== Fan Spotlight ==

= Cast Cards =

And we're back with more cast cards from @melvisik! The first, Michael Heidemann is one of the English Seamen!

Second up we have another "Emmy submission, for Outstanding Music Supervision in a Series for Impossible Birds - AdoptOurCrew", Maggie Phillips!

Source: @melvisik's Twitter

== Love Notes ==

Hey there lovelies, I have had a cold and have been swamped with work so I'm severely behind again with everything going on. I apologise for no personal love notes. I figured I'd share some more love from others, but know I'm thinking of you and hoping you're going into the weekend well crew. First is from the fabulously kind people over at @ positivelypresent

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Dani DiPirro (@positivelypresent)

Source: positivelypresent's Instagram

Next is very wonderful affirmation from TheLatestKate -- when you're having a bad day, these are some good words to remember:

Source: TheLatestKate's Tumblr

== Daily Darby / Today's Taika ==

Today's gif is courtesy of the lovely @snake-snack-stede <3 One of the best scenes from Fun and Games.

[dontirrigateme]

Made by the amazing @ronald-speirs (my sister wrote this part, but I've seen your stuff and I agree so I'm leaving it). And thanks @1waveshortofashipwreck for the tag

Favorite place in the world you’ve visited?

Mt. Etna. When I was little (like, 3rd grade) we lived in Sicily, and one winter my brother and I wanted desperately to play in the snow, but it hadn't snowed where we lived in a long time. So we took a drive up Etna until we saw snow, where we stopped and spent the day playing around in it. (It was later that there was a horrible eruption that caused a bad earthquake where we lived, but I sleep like Nixon so I was dead to the world throughout the event.)

Something you’re proud of yourself for?

Making it through fire academy. Other than playing basketball one year in childhood I had never been very athletic, but I was out there doing bleacher runs, blackout drills, and climbing ladders to drag giant hoses to the top of buildings with the rest of them. I'm driven by the desire to not make an ass out of myself in front of others, and somehow I was able to do all those things, and ultimately participate in a live burn at the end of the program.

Favorite books?

Making my way through the books written by and about the troopers, so I gotta go with Band of Brothers. But my other favorites are anything by Kurt Vonnegut, the Dark Tower series, the Black Company series, Les Miserables, Moby Dick, Practical Demonkeeping (and almost anything by Christopher Moore), Hitchhiker's Guide...I'm sure I'm leaving some out, I love to read (Dick Tracy and Flash Gordon mostly...I couldn't resist).

Something that makes your heart happy when thinking about it?

.........band of brothers. Specifically my background characters. Specifically Smokey and McClung.

Favorite thing about your culture? About being American?

When did you join the HBO War fandom? What was the first show you watched?

It was a long road.......it came out when my family was stationed in Japan, so I didn't really know about it until I moved back. Streaming wasn't a thing then, so I would catch parts here and there, and I eventually figured I had seen the whole thing. Spent a long time thinking that people overreacted to it and that it was overrated. But I'm also leaving out one thing: that I am stupid. Figured my sister would appreciate having seen it, and suggested we watch it. I realized at the end of the first episode just how stupid I am.

Have you read any of Easy Company’s books? If so, which ones were your favorite?

I have a growing collection, but work often gets in the way. I've only read Ambrose's Band of Brothers. I've also read the Smokey portion of A Company of Heroes by Marcus Brotherton.

Favorite HBO War character and your favorite moment with them?

Have I mentioned how much I love Smokey yet.... One of his best moments (I think) is when he meets with Roe in Bastogne in his foxhole and gives him the morphine, tells him where to find scissors, and about Toye's boots.

Also McClung. And I love "ask him to dance, doc." The battle on the outskirts of Carentan has to be one of my favorite parts of the series though.

Do you make content for any fandoms, if so; what sort of content?

Just some gifs so far. I do like to write, but I've never dabbled in fanfiction.

Favorite actor/actress and your favorite film of theirs?

Russell Crowe and Michael Fassbender are the ones where I'll pretty much watch anything as long as one of them is in it, even if it's bad (like Jonah Hex...horrible movie, but worth it to see Fassbender's little villain character doing his little tee-hee leprechaun laugh through all his scenes). I'll also watch almost anything with Emily Blunt, she is fantastic and a hilarious human being.

Favorite quote/s that you wish to share with others?

So many by Kurt Vonnegut, but I'll just put two:

"If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind."

"We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane."

Random fact your mutuals/followers don’t know about you?

I had a bearded dragon named Ichabod years ago. And I still love that name for a lizard.

If you’re a writer, do you need a beta reader (say yes so I can be your beta reader 🤭)?

If I ever start writing again, then yes. 😊

Three things that make you smile?

Anything band of brothers (obviously)

my remote-controlled tank (which I did not expect to love so much)

Facial muscles

Any nicknames you like?

You can call me anything and I won't care. If it's an insult I'll probably just wind up more confused than offended.

List some people you love to see around on tumblr!

I can't even think of all the people I see around here, but of course my sister @1waveshortofashipwreck, also @executethyself35, @love--persevering. And the ones I see around like @panzershrike-pretz, @dustyjumpwjngs, @blood-mocha-latte, @ewipandora, @cody-helix02, @blueberry-ovaries, @grumpy-liebgott, @hanniewinnix, @kafka-ohdear, @malarkgirlypop, @whollyjoly (i'm sure i'm leaving some out, sorry....)

What would you do during a zombie apocalypse?

Finally have a job I like probably. Not like I have a crowbar, axe, jacket with a thousand pockets, and combat boots hoping for something to happen...

Favorite movie?

So, so many. The 12th Man, Four Lions, The Nice Guys, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Professional, Headhunters, the Full Monty, anything in the Mad Max franchise, Death of Stalin, Tremors, District 9, the Right Stuff, Children of Men, Suddenly Last Summer, Banshees of Inisherin, Dunkirk, 1917, Fury, 28 Days Later, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Drop Dead Fred, Sicario, Lars and the Real Girl, Casablanca, Three Kings, the Great Escape, the Fifth Element, Hud, Stand By Me, Tucker & Dale vs Evil, Evolution...I could go on

Do you like horror movies?

Yup. 28 Days Later is up there in my favorites. The Descent is an EXCELLENT horror movie for anyone that hasn't seen it (and has made it this far down my rambling answers). Ravenous isn't very well known, and it's not perfect, but it's fun and weird. Stir of Echoes is an unconventional horror movie, but an excellent one-off story. Slither is a fun one with a decent cast (Elizabeth Banks, Nathan Fillion, Michael Rooker, among others).

No pressure tags!!

I'm just gonna copy and paste the people I put up in my answers. Sorry if you already did this, but enjoy another tag: @executethyself35, @love--persevering, @panzershrike-pretz, @dustyjumpwjngs, @blood-mocha-latte, @ewipandora, @cody-helix02, @blueberry-ovaries, @grumpy-liebgott, @hanniewinnix, @kafka-ohdear, @malarkgirlypop, @whollyjoly

[speak-softly-love]

We need more Russell Crowe Reader-Insert fanfiction in this place!!!

Me on tumblr after three glasses of wine and way too much chocolate

[the-crowe-and-the-magpie]

YALL

If someone could PayPal me $10 I’ll write you a fic!!!

[drivinmeinsane]

»{ Holland March x Merman!Jackson Healy }« ※ { ao3 }

next chapter -»

※ Summary: Struggling, he can’t seem to reach the surface no matter how hard he paddles upwards. He’s going to die down here if he can’t cover any distance. He’d failed to take in any air when he went over on account of knocking himself senseless. Making a mistake, Holland looks down and sees the darting shadow of a pointed dorsal fin. Shark. There’s a fucking shark in the water with him. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Alternate Universe, Merman Jackson Healy, Canon-Typical Crack Taken Seriously, Frottage, Excessive Cum, Anal Sex, Cum Eating, Teratophilia, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking ※ Word count: 6,739 ※ Status: Multi-chapter (1/2) :: Complete ※ Author's note: Happy Mermay! 🦈

“But mermaids aren’t real,” Holland protests with a wild gesture of his arms.

In all honesty, the private investigator wishes he were sitting down for this consultation. It’s turning out to be one hell of a doozy. Unfortunately for him, his prospective client hadn’t offered him a seat. Holland feels a prickle of resentment.

“Aye, but this one is. Got m’self a real fish man out in those waters and I aim to catch the bastard for what he did.”

When the call had come to the March residence, Holland hadn’t thought much of it. He doesn’t always get the most… reasonable individuals seeking his services. Still, after driving himself all the way to this man’s house after dropping Holly off at school this morning, he hadn’t expected to be asked to track down a myth.

It’s all complete bullshit in his opinion. This man—Sam… something—must be out of his mind. Holland, of course, is a professional and has taken on more asinine and pointless jobs than this. Money is money and it makes the world go ‘round. Or so they say. Anyway, he has a house to rebuild.

Humoring the older man, he says, “Tell me again what you’re wanting me to do about your mermaid. You’re the fisherman.”

“You want a drink?” Sam calls over his shoulder instead of answering him. Already, he’s going for a cloudy looking jug on a clearly handmade shelf alongside a stack of dented metal cups. “I distill it m’self.”

Never one to turn down alcohol, Holland doesn’t protest. “Why not, but about your mer—”

He’s cut off by the grizzled man shoving a full cup of liquid into his chest, forcing Holland to take it. He narrowly avoids dropping it when Sam takes his free hand in between his.

“Got the hands of a city boy,” he comments. He doesn’t sound put out by this, especially not with the way he rubs a calloused thumb over March’s smooth knuckles.

Feeling himself color with a flush, he takes a swig of the beverage he’s been given. It burns like fire going down. He should probably stay away from open flames after he finishes it. He’s liable to be a victim of spontaneous human combustion if he doesn’t. The alcohol itself tastes little better than he’d imagine nail varnish remover from the 50-Cent store does.

Sam gives his hand a tight enough squeeze that he has to suppress a yelp as his bones are pinched together. Thankfully, he’s released almost immediately. If Holland is a little honest with himself, which he is never is, he might be likely to admit that he finds the other man attractive in some kind of rugged, outdoorsy way. Who’d have thought he would like scruffy men who could snap him like a stick if pushed? He tacks that information onto the ever growing list of his failings.

“About the fish. I just want you to keep an eye out for him. See where he hangs out, yeah? You don’t have to do anything more than spotting him and letting me know where he is.”

“You said he tried to kill you,” Holland says, uncomfortably taking another drink and casting a critical eye at their surroundings.

The investigator has been in some strange homes over the years, but this one very well might be in the top three. While it’s clearly the abode of a bachelor, lifelong if Holland had to guess, there are some things that would give anyone pause. Sam has stacks of Campbell’s tomato soup towering on various shelves. That alone wouldn’t be too terribly strange if it weren’t for the shark mandibles hung up all round his home and the too many copies of Moby Dick stored away on a warped and leaning bookshelf. The cherry on top of the sundae is an oversized pot of water clearly filled with more shark jaws that is boiling merrily away on the stove. Sam’s home must smell like fish and Holland has never been so grateful that his sense of smell got knocked right out of his head along with any additional cognitive abilities that would have benefited him.

“I said he stole m’net and pulled me off the boat then tried to drown me. He’s a big ol’ fucker but if you aren’t fishin’, I don’t think he’ll mess with you none,” the fisherman explains patiently. He’s grinning.

Holland thinks on his words in addition to what he’d been told earlier. Three hundred dollars and all he does is have to dick around on the boardwalks up and down a very small bit of the coast. Maybe he’ll have to take off his loafers and put his toes in the sand. All that for up to a week if he doesn't find Sam’s fish man before than. It’s not a bad job, not at all. At the very least, it offers him the privacy to drink without Holly’s knowledge.

He can’t stand to be home right now. Even though it’s a different house—just a rental and meant to be a temporary thing—part of him still expects to go around the corner and see his wife. Holland knows he’s being selfish by planning working with the anniversary of her death tomorrow, but he needs tonight to grieve and then he can scrape together the fragments of himself to be a… well, not a good dad, but maybe not a complete fuck-up of one tomorrow for his daughter.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he agrees.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Before Holland heads out to drag himself up and down the beach, he makes the drive back to the rental. Sam had advised him that the mermaid they’re seeking won’t be out until after the sun sets. Something about being shy, or having the behavior patterns of a shark. March doesn’t care. He’s just relieved he won’t have to slather himself in sunscreen and rub elbows with tourists under the sizzling rays of the sun. It’s not summer, the days are too short for that, but it’s never truly cold in California.

With Holly being away at school, it’s lonely at the rental. Holland drifts through the rooms like he’s a ghost himself, putting together what he needs for tonight. His supplies consists of a wrinkled map, a refilled flask, a pack of cigarettes, and his lighter. All the items get left on the coffee table next to his keys to shove into his pockets when he goes to leave for the majority of the night.

Holland makes the effort to be a responsible father, or his version of one anyway, by writing a note for his daughter to find when she gets home. It reads: Working case tonight. Won’t be home until late. Pizza money under the lamp. OK for Jessica to visit. Love you Kiddo.

He tapes it to her door at her eye level. She won’t be able to miss it.

Laying down on the couch, he tries to get comfortable enough to get a few hours of sleep. He turns on the TV to feel less lonely. It’s going to be a long night and this way, he is spared the restless stretch of time spent in bed wishing there was another body tucked underneath the covers beside his own.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Darkness begins to swallow the world with the setting of the sun. Visibility becomes murkier as the lights of the city fade away the further he gets from the heart of it. At least the moon looks like a sizable one tonight. He won’t be going into the dark totally blind even if he did forget to grab a flashlight. Holland isn’t even entirely sure the March family owns one these days.

He pulls off of the street and into a deserted parking lot. The Benz coasts to a stop, tires crunching over sand as it does. March puts the vehicle into park and makes sure to crank the parking break before removing the key from the ignition. One of the last things he needs is for the car to somehow roll down the embankment in front of it and get stuck nose-down in the beach’s sand. He doesn’t bother to close the top as he gets out and heads towards a flight of stairs leading down to the boardwalk that perches on the shore like some Lovecraftian monster.

While he’s descending the stairs, the PI tucks a cigarette between his lips and lights it. The rush of nicotine into his lungs is a familiar comfort. It makes the journey downward feel shorter.

This part of the coast is devoid of after-hour entertainment. There is no Ferris wheel, no stands selling popcorn and cotton candy. No pier-side carnival with young hopefuls or drugged out daredevils. It’s peaceful, almost too much so. If he’s frank, Holland thinks it’s creepy as all hell. Anyone could be lurking out here in the sands. Their footsteps on the wood boards would be covered up the steady roar of the waves. His skin crawls and he fights down a reflexive shriek at the thought of an imaginary boogeyman.

Overcome, he whips around to survey his surroundings with the desperation of the pursued. There’s nothing out here that he can see. Water laps against the pier supports. His panicked breathing finally slows. The cigarette he’s smoking burns down right to the filter as he looks out over the waves for any sign of a shark or a fish man. He plucks the spent stick from his mouth and grinds it between his fingers before flicking it out into unknowable depths.

He pulls his flask from his shirt pocket and takes a swig before tucking it away and continuing on. The investigator’s shoes are squelching over the sodden wood. He tries to keep the money he’s been offered in mind as he thinks about the damage the salt water might be doing to the leather.

Between the lulls in between waves, March hears a knocking sound. There’s a pier jutting off the boardwalk. Curiosity leads him into diverting his path. There’s a small boat tied to one of the mooring points. As he gets closer, his suspicion that it’s only the boat knocking against one of the wooden supports grows. Holland chalks himself up to just being jumpy from being out here alone with ideas of aquatic monsters swimming around in his head.

It’s not nothing. He looks down in the dark water and the rising moon illuminates a dead body knocking against the side of the boat. Holland screams and goes failing backwards, arms pinwheeling at his sides. He slips and hits the boards hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He whines getting to his feet only to slip again and hit his head on one of the mooring posts.

He renders himself unconscious and rolls into the ocean. The shock of the water makes him come to and he opens his eyes underneath the water. The salt stings his throat more than Sam’s shitty homemade alcohol had.

Struggling, he can’t seem to reach the surface no matter how hard he paddles upwards. He’s going to die down here if he can’t cover any distance. He’d failed to take in any air when he went over on account of knocking himself senseless. Making a mistake, Holland looks down and sees the darting shadow of a pointed dorsal fin. Shark. There’s a fucking shark in the water with him.

March redoubles his efforts but it’s useless. He’s not going to make it. Even under normal circumstances, he barely is able to swim.

Oh Jesus, he thinks, Who’s going to take care of Holly? Widow Wanda on the corner is going to have to look after her and her house always smells like cat piss. I’m such a terrible father.

In a rasp of skin gliding across cloth, the shark brushes against him. Holland forgets himself and screams. Water rushes into his lungs and he faints. His last conscious awareness is of human hands grabbing him around the waist and the sensation of behind towed through the ocean by a large animal in the way an orca might drag a seal.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Holland’s world explodes in stars. Pain shoots across his face in the wake of the slap he’s dealt. It’s a hell of a way to be brought back to the world of the living. His head is pounding an a way that provides a rhythm for the way his teeth feel like they’re doing the tango in his mouth. What the hell had happened to him?

Another slap goads him into putting his arms up defensively. “I’m awake! Jesus!”

Opening his eyes, he only sees darkness at first. Then his vision clears and he can make out the shape of a large, scruffy man looming over him. Unable to help himself, Holland screams. The shrill noise bounces off the surrounding rocks.

“Shut up,” the stranger tells him, not unkindly.

There’s no way to easily escape. He has been propped up against a boulder and his way is blocked by the man. He squints, looking closer at him. For a moment, he’s shocked into stunned silence at what he’s looking at. Holland tries to be logical. He is going to be normal and reasonable about this because he is a professional. March will not be the certified freak of the beach tonight.

“Nice costume,” he says, aiming for chipper.

“It’s not.”

“Not what?” Holland asks, feeling slightly strained.

“A costume.”

Silence falls between them while he tries to process that. Okay then, his savior really is off his rocker.

The private investigator chooses to act like he’d been told a joke and he laughs. “Don’t fuck with me, man. I’ve had a bad night. There’s a dead body in the water and you’re out here getting off on seeing Jaws too many fucking times. Well, listen here. I’m pissed at being the victim of your little shark prank and you need to cut that shit out.”

As fast as he can manage, he lunges towards the mystery man and tries to pull his costume tail off. It’s disturbingly realistic—smooth one in one direction and rough like sandpaper in the other. He gets a solid punch to the face for his efforts. It’s like being hit with a whole fucking ham on Black Friday. Holland goes reeling back against the boulder from the pain throbbing over his cheekbone.

“So... you’re a real mermaid then,” he says like it’s no big deal. It’s alright, he just hit his head too hard and tried to pull his presumed rescuer’s leg off. He’s imagining things.

It’s nothing a drink won’t fix, March decides. He fumbles for his flask and finds it still tucked into his shirt pocket. Somehow it hadn’t fallen during his dip in the water.

“Merman. Do I look like a maid?” The stranger sounds decidedly unamused.

“Suppose not.” he agrees. He unscrews the lid of his flask with a flourish.

Holland’s flask is dented and split right open. The only liquid left in it is an unholy bacterial mix of saltwater and liquor. It’s just his luck. Not realizing this, he takes a swig. He ends up coughing and choking. The fish man gives him an unimpressed look.

Eyes steaming, he finally stops coughing. The flask is a bust. He motions to throw it away, somewhere out into the ocean. It’s nature’s trashcan, isn’t it? The United States is dumping barrels of chemical waste out there. One little piece of metal won’t make any difference.

With the speed of a striking snake, the fish guy’s arm shoots out and pins March’s hand to the sand by his wrist. The flask is still clutched in his grasp. A yelp escapes Holland as he feels the bones in his forearm creak warningly. Any more pressure and his arm will snap.

“You won’t litter. What if I came into your home and threw trash into it?”

“How would you get to my house? You don’t have legs,” Holland spouts nervously. “Would you just crawl there? Maybe get a skateboard and—”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” he says, agreeably, but continues, “So, about the—”

“What did I just say? I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re not going to flap your lips about it. Got it?”

Holland nods and mimes zipping his mouth shut with his free hand. The fish man gives him a skeptical look but eases up on his hand and leans back. Meekly, he tucks the broken flask back into its usual pocket.

“Why are you out here? You don’t look like a jumper or one of those night swimmers.”

“I’m a PI and I have a case, thank you very much.”

Seemingly confused, the mermaid—merman—squints down at him. His eyes are flooded with a solid color. It looks black in the dim light, makes him look like an alien. His hair drips in curls over his forehead. Holland notes that the facial hair has been trimmed. He wonders how. It’s hard to imagine they have shaving razors down in Atlantis.

“What’s a PI?” he asks.

“It stands for private investigator.”

With each breath, the merman’s gills flutter on either side of his neck. The only response Holland gets is a blank look in those inky eyes.

“You know… a detective? A private detective? Private eye?”

There is not so much as a spark of recognition on the merman’s face. March is completely baffled.

“A cop? I’m like one of those but I solve mysteries for people?” he tries.

“You don’t look like one. A cop.”

“Because I’m a PI. I investigate mysteries. Like Scooby-Doo?” he offers, thinking about the masks being pulled off in the cartoon that Holly has been watching on Saturdays to agitate her hungover father off the couch. Well, he’s only hungover for as long as it takes for him to get another drink down his throat. That’s the thing. If you’re always drunk, you feel the aftereffects less. It’s March’s favorite trick.

“The dog?” the merman’s voice rasps. Holland can almost feel the vibrations from the fish man’s chest in his own. He’s still that close, nearly between Holland’s legs. He’s warm and Holland is shivering. He finds himself spreading his legs wider and shifting closer. Shamefully, the PI has to make an effort to stop from plastering himself against the stranger.

He blinks. His voice rises as he asks, “How the fuck do you know what Scooby-Doo is but not what a detective is?”

This night has been overly surreal. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. Maybe his brain is having the final functions of a dying man while floating next to the dead body that had sent him into ocean in the first place. Maybe he’s being eaten by the shark right now and is too far gone to realize and his mind is trying to make sense of it by conjuring the animal up as this handsome fish man. Maybe he shouldn’t have rented Splash from the video store the other night. It crossed some wires.

Dismissively, the merman waves a webbed hand. “Right. Who are you?”

“Holland March. I’m a priv—”

That same hand gets shoved into his face, cutting him off. “Jackson Healy.”

Why did his dying subconscious have to make up someone so goddamn rude? Holland shakes it warily. His eyes are still stinging from the saltwater.

“I expected a fish name. Something like Swimathy or James Pond or… Gillbert. I don’t know.”

“Swimathy?” Jackson mutters, disgusted.

Holland makes an offended noise. Hey, at least he’d been trying.

“Why are you out here, March?” he asks.

As Holland thinks about the question, he realizes he hates how the edges of his thoughts are too sharp. The investigator wishes he had alcohol to smooth out his mind until it washed away the discomfort.

“I have a case. Some guy wants me to track down a mythological fish man that tried to drown him the other day. Which I don’t think is even possible because fish men don’t...” he trails off, blinks, his brain kicks into gear. “Jesus! You’re the fish man.”

Healy looks at him, contemplative. The lack of visible pupils makes it more intense than it would be from a human. He squirms under that stare.

“He was hunting and he shouldn’t have been. Not here.”

That’s all but a direct confession. Holland shakily reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his sodden pack of cigarettes. He puts the wet filter between his lips. A bit of saltwater spurts out with the pressure, coating his tongue in brine. He plucks it out of his mouth, spits, puts it back in place and flicks on his lighter. The cigarette doesn’t catch. Of course not.

Not wanting to be reprimanded for littering again, March shoves the cigarette back in the pack. It explodes tobacco all over his fingers that he has to wipe on his pants before returning the whole situation, pack and lighter, into his pocket.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem. Look, he paid me. A job is a job, alright? You dragged him out of his boat and he wants to know where you are so he can talk it through.”

“Talk it through by sticking me, maybe,” Healy says, bitter tone to his voice, His hand goes to a scar bisecting his upper arm. It flashes silver in the moonlight. Holland had assumed it was a natural marking to go with the other lines and speckles adorning the merman’s skin.

“I don’t ask questions, I just accept payment. It’s a job.” He’s all too aware of how defensive he sound.

Besides, he reasons, this guy… fish… merman is big. Jackson can hold his own, surely. Holland wouldn’t tussle with him, not after feeling some of the strength residing in that thick body of his. He’s built like an old-fashioned bruiser. March can easily picture a pair of brass knuckles on those webbed fingers. All at once, he realizes that Healy’s teeth are sharp and it fully dawns on him that he’s looking at an actual predator, a shark with human intelligence.

Jesus, Holland thinks with dawning horror, what kind of damage could he do if he tried?

“What if I pay you?”

“What? What do you mean pay me? Pay me for what? I don’t solve fish crimes. You lose Bruce out there and need to find him? Do you not have fish detec—”

“March.”

Holland shuts his mouth.

“If I pay you, will you do a job for me as well? You can tell your man where I am, collect on that money and get payment from me after you do my job.”

“What—I don’t accept seashells or whatever fish currency,” he protests, desperately confused.

“You accept paper money? Coins? Jewelry?”

Holland pats himself down in vain. He’s automatically reaching for the crutch of a cigarette before he remembers. Put out, he asks, “How much are we talking?”

“Enough.”

“How do you know what’s enough? How do you even have the means to pay me?” He’s half expecting the fish man to give him a soggy five dollar bill.

Healy moves his wide shoulders up in a shrug as he says, “Your kind leaves shit behind all the time. It all ends up in the water. Finders keepers.”

“But…” he trails off, inarticulate.

“Name a price.”

“I don’t know what the job even is.”

“There’s an organization that deals with illegal hunting—”

“Fishing.” Holland interrupts. In the back of his mind he’s having to come to terms with the idea of fish law and fish court. How else would Jackson know about legalities?

Healy directs a frown at him. “I need you to stick around and tell somebody when he’s out on the water with a net and harpoon doing it. He needs to get caught.“

“Not all fishing is illegal.”

“Yes, I know that,” Jackson says with almost condescending patience, “but what he’s doing is. Some other human got in trouble for doing the same thing. The human has been a real pain in my back, March. I don’t appreciate my life bring thrown around. I’m not going to be his trophy catch.”

“Five hundred. Cash. Paper money. Half up front, other half on delivery,” Holland bursts out, not truly expecting the fish man to agree.

“Done. Meet me where you fell,” he says.

Mouth hanging open, the private investigator watches as the merman pushes out into the water and slips underneath the surface. He’s left behind to get to his feet and traverse through the sand in what he hopes is the right direction of the boardwalk. The beach does its best to steal his shoes.

“Would have been nice if Flipper could have taken me back,” he grumbles.

It’s a relief when he finally climbs the stairs leading up onto the elevated path. Less of a relief is the presence of the body. The dead man is still bobbing unpleasantly by the small boat. A dingy? A rowboat? He’s not sure what to call it. Holland has never been a seaman. He’s not about to start now.

Exhausted, he sits down, letting his legs dangle over the side. It’s been a night. The cold breeze coming off the ocean’s surface makes him shiver. He’s itching for a smoke or a drink. Something. He can’t have shit can he?

March is not sure how long he sits there, soaked and uncomfortably shifting from the chafing of the sand that’s worked its way into places it should never be. He finally gives in and lays down. The back of his head hits the wood with a thunk that makes him wince. After a while, his eyes drift shut and he dozes off.

Something slaps him on the cheek, startling him awake. In a repetition of just a while ago, Holland opens his eyes to see a large figure hovering over him and he stifles a scream.

“How the hell did you get up here?” he gasps. He’s clutching at his heart.

“Jumped. Here. Your money.” Jackson answers, tossing a wet bundle of bills onto his stomach.

Suddenly in much better spirits, Holland sits up and combs through the money with an eager thumb. Two hundred and fifty dollars exactly. The fish man hadn’t been yanking his leg when he said he could pay.

“Meet me tomorrow night at the spot where I dragged you out of the water. Tell your client I’ve been around the pier.”

Before he can respond, Healy turns and launches himself off the wood. He slips into the water with more elegance than the investigator would have expected from something the merman’s size.

“What about the body?” he mutters to no one. The fish man hadn’t explained that at all. Jesus, he hopes that Jackson hadn’t killed him. He shoves the wad of bills into his pocket after standing up.

It’s a long climb up the stairs. He might as well be trying to scale the Great Wall of China. By the time he reaches the top, he’s wheezing and desperately wants to collapse on the ground. Rather making for his car, he digs a fistful of change out of his pocket and goes to the payphone at the edge of the parking lot. He slips some coins, ten cents worth, into the slot before pocketing the rest.

Holland presses the 0 button and waits, debating on just pulling his shoes of. The sand really is aggravating. Only the thought of rubbing his bare toes all over the pedals of his car stops him.

“Hi, operator, can you connect me to the police?”

He listens for the confirmation and waits some more for the connection.

“Los Angeles Police Department.”

“I need to report a dead body. It’s down at the dock from the parking lot at the uhhh…” Holland thinks for a moment,” just off Via Riviera and Paseo.”

“Sir, what—”

“Anyway, super dead. Very much in the water. Don’t know what happened. Goodnight,” and he hangs up.

Not wanting to deal with the arrival of the police to be asked questions he doesn’t know the answers to, he wastes no time launching himself behind the wheel of his Benz and getting out of the lot. He’s going to straight home and rinse off in the shower before collapsing into bed. When he wakes up in the morning, things will be normal and fish free. He’ll laugh all of this off as a hallucination.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Light burrowing through the gaps of the blinds and through the curtains is what drags Holland from his slumber. He lays on his side for a moment, taking stock of how sore his body feels. Straining, he makes out the numbers displayed on his bedside block. It’s already well past noon. There’s only a few more hours of daylight left.

With a sigh, he sits up and drags himself out of bed only to immediately trip over the discarded pile of clothing on his floor. It’s wet.

“What…?”

Last night comes rushing at him and Holland snatches up the bundle of cloth. He starts tearing through his pockets looking for evidence that it hadn’t been some kind of alcohol induced dream. He finds the cracked flask and the still damp wad of cash.

March stumbles back, still holding onto the stiffening pants and sits on the edge of his bed. It had been real. That means… Jackson Healy the merman had been real too. Fish people aren’t just myths. The pants slip out of his slackened grasp and fall back onto the floor to join the rest of clothing he’d worn last night.

Feeling dazed, he goes to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother to get dressed in anything more than the boxers and undershirt he’d put on after rinsing himself free of saltwater last night.

He aims for some normalcy, as much as he gets given his choice of employment, and starts the coffeepot. He sets a mug out on the counter. Deciding he’s going to need a bit of a kick while he thinks about the events of the past twenty-four hours, he drags over a bottle of bourbon.

“Dad?” comes Holly’s voice. He’s surprised for a moment then he realizes that it’s a Saturday, no school. Holland is on top of things enough to know that.

The private investigator knows that he’s lucky to have such a good kid. In his more sober moments, he loathes having been the cause of her needing to be so independent at a young age. Holland March is a fuck-up and everyone knows it. He wishes he were a better man, one that wasn’t making his daughter pay the price for his shortcomings and self-inflicted issues. One of these days, he’s going to kick the drinking habit and do right by her, but… today is not going to be that day.

“Hi, honey,” he says, fetching a second mug from the cupboard without her needing to ask. Should a thirteen year old be drinking coffee? Probably not, but March isn’t going to stop her.

Once the coffee finishes dripping into the glass carafe, he fills both mugs two-thirds of the way in order to leave room for any additives. He pushes Holly’s at her along with the sugar jar. He fills his own the rest of the way up with bourbon while she fetches creamer from the fridge.

“What did you do last night? There’s sand and stuff all over the place.”

“I... uh... I had a case last night. I need to check in on the client today and meet with Jackson tonight. Also don’t say—”

` “Were you just drinking again?” she asks before he can finish his word policing. Holly is skeptical, too jaded to hope. She knows him too well to expect real progress from him. It would sting if it weren’t so accurate.

“No! No, my flask actually broke. I didn’t have a drop, promise.” He neglects to mention he had already drank about half of it and had whatever backwater distillery project Sam had handed him prior to Holland doing a nosedive off the pier.

“Dad.”

“Remember that case I mentioned? The mermaid guy? Well, I found his fish man and he wasn’t bullshitting. There’s an actual mermaid, well he said he wasn’t a maid. I thought he was a shark at first, but he saved me and—”

“Dad.”

“Yes?” Everyone seems determined to interrupt him when he’s speaking. He takes a drink from his mug.

“I’m going with you today.” she says, holding up a hand to stop him from saying anything further.

“Okay.” He gives in, doesn’t protest a bit. Holland doesn't want to leave her alone, not today.

Holly looks surprised at the lack of protest. She’d clearly had expected a fight about it.

“I’ll get dressed. Meet you by the car in fifteen?”

Holly flashes him a thumbs up and shoots off down the hall to her bedroom like the Roadrunner off LoonyTunes. He’d been just as high energy back when he was a kid. Holland’s own parents could barely get him to sit still enough to eat dinner most nights.

Burning his mouth a little, he downs the rest of his coffee in two swallows. He goes to his own room at a slightly more sedate pace to find a set of fresh clothes. He’s already mourning the future spent without a functioning flask. He’s going to have to rely on cigarettes alone until he can pick one up on Monday when his daughter is at school. He doesn’t want to have to face the disappointment in her eyes if he purchases one while they’re together. Upsetting her this afternoon is not an option, not with it being the anniversary of her mom’s death.

In preparation for everything tonight might entail, Holland gets dressed in clothing he’s less attached to. If he’s running the risk of sand and finding himself in the ocean again, he’s not styling himself up to the nines. Khaki pants and a short sleeve button-up on top of his underthings are as fancy as he’s getting. Grimacing, he puts on the same pair of loafers he’d worn last night. The traces of sand still lingering in the corners try to breach the barrier of his socks.

When Holland leaves the room, he finds Holly’s bedroom door open without her in sight. He scrapes his keys out of the bowl. He also makes sure to write a fresh copy of Sam’s address on the underside of his forearm, right below his watchband, before he steps outside. He doesn’t feel like trying to remember the house number and street.

As expected, his daughter is waiting for him by the Benz.

“You ready, kiddo?” he asks.

Holly nods, only to look surprised when he loops around to the driver’s side and takes a seat behind the wheel. He’s so disgustingly sober he feels capable of driving with his daughter as a passenger.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit the client. I need to tell him what I found.”

“Oh right… your mermaid,” Holly says doubtfully.

Unbothered by her disbelief, March cranks up the radio, and they’re soon flying down the streets of LA. He slaps the outside of the car door in time with the beat. Holly can be a skeptic all she likes, but she’s going to be surprised when she sees her old man isn’t lying after he takes her with him on his house call to see the merman himself.

In no time at all, he pulls to a stop alongside the curb in front of the same ramshackle house he’d been in just the afternoon before. Holland probably should have called ahead, but it’s too late for that now. He hops out of the vehicle and makes his way up the sidewalk to the front door with his daughter trailing behind him. The private investigator taps his knuckles against the peeling door. It’s promptly answered by the same man as yesterday who peers at him suspiciously from around the door before flinging it open wide.

Sam adjusts his hat and looks approvingly at Holland from below hooded eyes. “Surprised to see ya back so soon, city boy.” He looks at where Holly is standing beside her father with her arms crossed. “And who’s this little lady?”

“My daughter. Holly.”

“Nice to meet ya. I’m Sam. Your dad’s doing me a real big favor,” he says, before turning to Holland with a grin, “Come on in and tell me what you found, yeah?”

Without hesitating, the father and daughter follow Sam inside. Holland doesn’t miss the way Holly has to suppress a gag at the smell the boiled shark cartilage must be putting off. He wonders if the fisherman still has a sense of smell and has just grown immune to it, or if he is like Holland and simply can’t smell.

“I found your fish man,” he blurts out, wanting to get this over with.

Sam’s eyes light up with uncontained glee. “Yeah, where did you find the slippery bastard?”

“By the pier. The one attached to the boardwalk by Via Riviera and Paseo.”

“Ah, he’s moved further north than when he pulled me out of my boat. What time did you see him?”

“Not long after dusk. You were right about his… patterns being like a shark.”

The rugged man claps him on the shoulder. Holland’s knees nearly buckle with the impact. Sam praises, “Good work, we’ll get him yet.”

Failing to successfully wave of offers of tomato soup from the many cans, Holland finds himself seated on a threadbare couch next to his daughter while their host regales them with old seafaring tales from his time on commercial fishing boats. All three of them have chipped bowls of soup in their hands. No spoons. The thick liquid had been heated on the stove next to the ever boiling pot of shark parts. He’s sure it has to affect the taste given the despairing glances Holly keeps sending his way when Sam isn’t looking.

Trying to not bounce his leg impatiently while the other man talks, Holland gulps down his soup. His mind keeps going to the fish man that will be waiting for them soon. It’s going to be a significant drive to the ocean followed by a too-long walk along the shore to reach the spot where Jackson had pulled him to dry ground.

After a while, he simply cannot take any more and manages to speak during a lull in the fisherman’s bottomless, one-sided storytelling. “Sorry, Sam. We’re going to have to head out. Holly’s got homework. You know how it is. Thank you. Bye.”

Sam’s own goodbyes and reassurances that he’ll let Holland know when he “catches that big brute” follow them out of the door while they make their escape to the relative safety of the vehicle. Holly sags back into the seat while he starts the Benz and begins the drive. The sun is already beginning to set. Nervously, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

The lot is empty again just as it had been the evening before. Police tape marks off the stairs, though there are no officers milling about. He probably should have checked the news, but regardless, he pulls into the same spot he’d been parked in.

Having learned enough from last time, he strips off his shoes and socks and gestures for Holly to do the same. They toss it all onto the back floorboard to retrieve later. Pleasantly, the parking lot is still warm under their feet as they make their way to the stairs. March holds the tape up for his daughter to step below before ducking under himself. As she passes him, he notices that she’s carrying two Yoo-hoos. The investigator doesn’t say anything. Maybe she is planning on being thirsty after their walk.

Holland digs a cigarette out of the pack and lights it once it’s between his lips. It dangles there while they amble downwards and finally make it onto the level surface over a dozen feet below the parking lot level.

“Dad… Are you sure you weren’t just imagining things?” Holly asks when he leads them off the boardwalk to the beach. Sand threatens to engulf them up to the ankles.

“You’ll see,” he promises.

next chapter -»

Do not repost, copy, or reproduce my work to other sites or in other media formats. Do not use it for anything to do with AI. Thank you.

[wildsaltair]

Nightmare

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff)

Word Count: 2.3k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted

Author’s Note: Up until now I've never posted any Maximus fanfiction because it's always just sort of been something I did for my own enjoyment, but this is one that I don't mind sharing :) @streets-in-paradise inspired me by sharing some Maximus love with me, so this is dedicated to her (and all you other wonderful people who have made Tumblr a place where I can share my passion for this wonderful man)! There's a lot of love poured into this fic, so I hope y'all enjoy it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

You are not surprised to learn that Maximus has nightmares. The details of his past are something you can only guess at, though he has alluded to the terrible battles and bloody escapades that haunt his memories. You also know that his refuge in your home is the first peace he has known since he was a child.

But you are not prepared for the sheer forcefulness of his first nightmare. He’s asleep next to you in bed, pale blue moonlight filtering through the window of your room, but you are awakened by his movements in the middle of the night. He’s jerking back and forth, his face twisted in a look of concentration, agony, and terror. You can’t help the fear that rises in your throat at the sight.

He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, one hand gripping the sheets tightly enough that his knuckles turn white. Blinking yourself into consciousness, your heart tightens at the sight. Even all these miles and months away from battle, still his past pursues him in dreams.

His next convulsion shakes the bed, and you instinctively reach out to him, hoping to wake him from the nightmare. It proves to be a mistake the second your hand presses onto his shoulder to shake him awake.

His eyes fly open at your touch, but it’s abundantly obvious that he is not awake, still seeing visions of whatever memory he was in a few moments ago. The look in his eyes is one of pure survival instinct, of a desperation that breaks your heart.

A split second later, you’re flat on your back, and the full weight of his body is pinning you down against the bed. You barely have time to register the shock of his swift movement before you realize that you did not wake him up. Blinded by memory, all he can see is his opponent, and the thought drives you to panic and try to wriggle out from under him.

Grinding his teeth, he grips both your wrists in his left hand and restrains them above your head effortlessly, despite your struggling. You call out his name softly, then more loudly, but still he is lost in the nightmare.

You thought you had tasted his strength before, when he’s made love to you and demonstrated how easily he can hold you in whatever position he chooses, but this situation gives you an entirely new perspective of his strength. A second after flipping you over, his right hand is around your throat, his thumb pressing into your jugular with enough force to crush it.

You’ve never been afraid of him once, but in this moment, without a single hint of recognition in his eyes and all his power focused on choking you, you are so terrified you can barely react. You can’t even use your hands to try to push him away.

Knowing that you may only have a few seconds to react, you gasp out his name as loudly as you can, the word immediately drowned out by the pressure on your throat. Your vision is fading to black a moment later, all the feeling in your hands gone from his vise-like grip.

But your strangled cry reaches past the fog of his nightmare somehow. The pressure on your throat releases, and his eyes widen suddenly, letting you know that he’s finally awake and realizing what he has been doing.

You can never forget the look in his eyes at that moment. All the terrifying forcefulness, the single-minded fierceness, the brute strength that made him such a force of nature on the battlefield — it all vanishes in a split second, dissolving into a gaze of such horror and regret that it shatters your heart instantly. You know that from this moment forward, he may never truly trust himself with you again, a thought that devastates you for him.

You can’t move for a moment, still struggling to catch your breath, and the look of horror in his eyes only increases as he pushes himself off you. He seems torn between the need to gather you in his arms and the fear of hurting you as he just did. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

You draw a ragged breath, reaching out one hand toward him desperately. “I’m all right,” is all you can manage. “I’m all right.”

You try to push yourself to a sitting position, but you find that you simply cannot, still so shaken from thinking you were about to be choked to death by the man you love, who you know would rather die than cause you any harm. His hands are trembling wildly when he reaches out to steady you.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he says, his own breathing so erratic that you wonder if he can feel your pain. “I couldn’t see you. I didn’t know it was you.”

He’s repeating himself in absolute shock, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, your neck, your arms to see what damage he’s done to you. His shaking only worsens, but he doesn’t lay a hand on you during his frantic checking over you for injuries, just lets them hover as if he’s afraid to touch you again.

You manage to sit up this time, steadying yourself with a calming breath and trying to give him a relaxed smile. “I know, I know,” you murmur, reaching out to brush your hand over his ruffled hair. He almost recoils at your touch.

“I could have killed you,” he whispers, involuntarily shifting himself to the edge of the bed away from you.

You keep running your hand lightly through his hair, determined to reassure him. “Of course not,” you promise. “You were only dreaming. It was just a dream.”

“It was just a dream,” he echoes, but not in agreement. “A dream of a battle in which I almost died. In which I killed so many men I could never count them.”

You don’t betray a single hint of fear, just scooting forward to close the distance between you. You use both hands now, framing the sides of his face as his eyes search your face desperately.

“I’m perfectly all right,” you assure him with a smile. “See? No harm done at all.”

“You don’t understand,” he insists vehemently, his voice breaking. “I could have killed you. I didn’t know it was you. I only saw my enemy and thought of killing him.”

Seeing how shaken he is, you push forward and clasp your arms around his neck to steady him. He still doesn’t touch you, doesn’t return your embrace. You can feel his whole body quaking in your arms.

“You don’t understand,” he repeats. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I don’t need to know,” you whisper in his ear, stroking his hair rhythmically in the way he always responds to.

He actually pushes you away this time, his hands gentle on your forearms as he puts space between you again. His eyes are blazing, his face as white as your sheets. “You don’t know,” he murmurs again, dropping his hands. “I could snap your neck with one twitch of my wrist. I could break your wrists, your ribs, your spine as easily as I can hold you down.” He holds his hands up in front of you, eyes wide and haunted. “You have no idea what these hands have done.”

“I don’t care what they’ve done,” you argue, seizing his hands with yours before he can pull them away. This time, though, he doesn’t make a move to pull away, freezing in place while he watches you carefully. Slowly, intentionally, you kiss the backs of both his hands, his knuckles, his fingers, to demonstrate your words. “I know you, and I love you, no matter what you’ve done.”

He shakes his head, though his eyes drift closed at the touch of your lips on the base of his palms. “No,” he half-whispers, “no, no.” Your heart tightens seeing him so tortured, knowing that all this anguish lurks beneath his stoic exterior every day, hiding so you can’t see it. “I should never have risked you like this.”

“You’ve never risked me,” you insist. “You’ve never done anything but protect me.”

“Until tonight,” he counters sharply, his eyes flashing open and fixing on yours with his typical intensity magnified. “It only takes one time. I should never have taken the risk.”

You can read the meaning behind his words — that he thinks he can’t trust himself to sleep next to you. The thought of giving him up, especially for this reason, is utterly unacceptable to you.

“I am not afraid of you,” you tell him firmly. Your words seem to affect him, because the tension in his shoulders lessens fractionally. You kiss his hands again and again, then rest your cheek against the roughened skin that you love so much.

“You should be,” he replies softly, the severity in his voice already decreasing. You can see the waves of exhaustion and sorrow washing over him, and you reach out your arms to enfold him again. This time, he accepts your embrace, folding his arms around your waist gently and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck. His skin is burning hot against yours, his arms still trembling.

“I could never be afraid of you,” you whisper. “I could never be afraid of the man who has protected me and cherished me. You have treated me so gently, so tenderly all these months. Never once has it crossed my mind to be frightened of your strength.” You press a kiss to his shoulder, then the side of his neck. “I take pride in having the heart of a man so strong, so capable. I know you would never hurt me.”

He shifts you in his arms, lifting you slightly to align more easily against his body. You can feel the deep, shuddering breath he draws while he thinks about your words. “I would never mean to hurt you,” he replies, “but in a dream, I cannot tell the difference between memory and reality.”

“I believe you would be able to keep yourself from truly hurting me,” you reassure him, threading your fingers into his hair at the base of his neck. He reacts to your touch with a hand sliding up your back to cradle you closer to his chest.

“And if I could not?” he whispers in response, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “If I should wake and find you dead by my hand?”

You shake your head, feeling tears spring to your eyes. Any fear you felt in the moment while he was holding you down is completely gone, lost in the tender embrace he holds you in now. “I do not believe the gods would allow such a thing to happen. Not to you. Not to us.”

He releases a shaky breath, one that glides across the exposed skin of your neck. He ducks his head to press a kiss to your collarbone, letting his lips linger there in a way that makes you shiver in his arms. “I am honored by your trust.”

You smile in response, dragging your fingertips lightly down his sides, over the deep scar that slices down his ribs. “I could never trust another man on earth as I do you,” you reply. “My only fear is that I may drown in the love I see in your eyes every day.”

He kisses your collarbone again in response, then moves upward slowly, pressing his lips to the soft hollow of your throat, then the underside of your jaw at your pulse point. Lifting you up effortlessly with his hands hooked under your arms, he repositions you so that you’re straddling him.

He then rests his fingertips, feather-light this time, against the sides of your neck. He strokes his fingers over each mark they left, then presses the softest of kisses against each one. Goosebumps break over your skin at the intimacy of his actions, of the wordless apology in every touch.

He lowers his forehead against yours, eyes closed as he breathes you in. “I do not know what blind fortune allowed me to find you,” he murmurs, touching his lips softly against the corner of your mouth, “but I thank them every moment for the gift of holding you like this.”

At your affectionate smile, he finally gives you the ghost of one in return, though his eyes are still haunted. You suspect that he will retain that haunted look for some time, no matter how many reassurances you offer.

As the intensity of the last while calms, he shifts you in his arms again, cradling you gently and laying you back against the pillows. He leans up on one arm, facing you, and you reach up a hand to stroke the side of his face. His expression softens again, giving you a look of utter fondness and devotion that makes your heart melt.

He leans forward slowly, as if asking your permission, and you gladly grant it. His lips touch yours with a gentle brush, then a bit more pressure. His tongue slides across yours in the way that always sends shivers up your spine, and one of his hands reaches up to stroke your hair, the other resting lightly on your waist. He kisses you once, twice, three times, each one more tender than the last, then lets his lips linger against yours for a moment more.

“I love you,” he says softly that you barely hear it, but rather feel it against your mouth.

“I love you,” you return, “more than I can say.”

One last kiss, and he finally lays down beside you, his face mere inches from yours and his arm folded across your waist. He takes his time in going back to sleep, choosing instead to gaze at your profile in the soft moonlight, but sleep finally takes him. And when you finally close your eyes, content to sleep peacefully beside him again, it’s to the sound of his even breathing and the warmth of his protective embrace.

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

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

[fawninthesnow]

"𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧" : One Shot: Request

𐙚 General Maximus x Fem! Reader 𐙚 18+

Summary: You are a Queen of a recently conquered land. General Maximus Decimus Meridius of Rome pays you a visit in your castle.

Warnings/contains: male dom (kinda), sub fem, humiliation, degradation, alcohol consumption, oral (male reciv!), constriction, physical restraints, mentions of war/blood, not proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 2.5k

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

His men pushed open the grand doors to the Castle, and with the loud stomps of triumph, you mourned from your throne. Your head rests in your fingertips as Latin chatter filled the halls of your home. Tears stained your cheeks as your servants quietly sobbed around you. In the next room, your court discussed their grievances and some quickly left in their carriages with their own belongings, abandoning the kingdom.

Although you could hear the voices of over a hundred men in the halls, the squelches of mud from your ruined lands beneath their shoes—only one man entered the throne hall. He shut the doors behind him and removed the helmet from his head; he placed it on a wooden table beside a vase of wilted flowers.

“What is your name?” You raised a blade, your vision too blurry to make out his features. He placed his weapon on the table as well and walked closer to your throne.

“General Maximus Decimus…Meridius of Rome.”

Your body felt weak from sitting here all these hours. “You speak…my tongue.” He nodded before facing the ground. A sob left your mouth as he bowed his head. “M- my husband!” You screamed as you imagined the blood on his arms and down his neck. “The sons of my kingdom! Do not bow before me after slaughtering my own flesh!” Your bosom heaved as you stood from your throne. Your nails absentmindedly grabbed your gown, and a servant quickly ran to you, holding it up as you stepped to the man. You pushed him from you with the tip of your sword against his steel breastplate. “Leave! I want you and your men to leave!”

He continued to bow his head, “Your majesty…I cannot do that.”

“What more can you take?! You selfish, blood-thirsty romans! Murderous bastards!” You spat as he remained quiet, almost meditative. “Speak!”

“Your majesty, I have no doubts that your reign was-“

“Is! I will not surrender to the hand of the romans.”

The man pushed away the sword you so strongly held. Your skin is soft, however, the veins pushing towards the surface of your skin with adrenaline along your hands, and neck. “I mourn with you.” You laughed with disgust.

“I could kill you.” You muttered to yourself. “I COULD KILL YOU!” You screamed at him; your vocal cords strained already. “You could never…you-“ Your body collapsed from exhaustion onto the ivory floors of your throne room.

The man quickly raised you from the ground, his eyes wide with shock. “Is she ok?!” He asked the servants. The group of women shook with terror—

“S- this happens sometimes.” A petite woman said from behind the Queen’s throne. “She…she will wake soon.”

He looked around before pulling you up into his arms. Your unconscious head leaned over one of his arms, your hair came undone as he adjusted you in his arms. “Well, she needs a bed.” The servants perked up and two of them led Maximus to the royal chambers. The servants nervously avoided the roman men in the halls of the castle. The General laid you down in your bed. He frowned at the pillows stained with tears.  He bowed his head and whispered a prayer. Your bare feet played with the sheets in bed and your fists bawled; Your eyes were shut closed, rather tensely.

“She wants you out.” A servant spoke up. “You and your men.”

Maximus nodded. He would never want a man who killed him to be in the same room as his wife. He was more than conflicted; he had a message to give you, and it was only for your ears.

Night came and his men camped outside of the castle, and he waited on a chair outside of your room. His fingers interlaced over his fur cloak. He knew you had just woken from rest since the sound of your scratchy and mournful voice echoed through the chambers behind him. The man cleared his throat and stood in front of the closed door. He knocked upon the door a few times.

“Who is knocking on my door?” You asked a servant. They quickly opened the bedroom door.

“General Maximus, My Queen.” You rolled your eyes and sat across from your husband’s portrait. “Should I let him?”

“Yes, Marnie.” The maid dismissed herself and let the general into your chambers. He stepped closer to you.

“Your majesty.” He bowed.

You looked away from him at the flames, your nails stabbing at the pads of your fingers. “I understand your frustration with me. However, I hope you can allow me to share the news I have.”

“I already know what you have to say.”

He walked around your chair and kneeled before you. “Then you will not mind if I speak.” You said nothing and looked past him at the painting of your deceased lover. “I have been made to round the rest of your army up and take them with me to the outskirts of Rome. My emperor will allow you to keep your kingdom and people you so choose to stay here. However, there will be a tax on your lands for as long as you rule.” You raised your hand to him and slapped his face. He shut his eyes and swallowed his spit bitterly. You sobbed, holding a handkerchief to your eyes. “I am sorry for your loss. I am sure your husband was-“

“I do not care about my husband! He was a horrible man!” Maximus’ eyebrows scrunched in confusion, “You! Your men have left me to do this on my own!” You shook your head, “I cannot do this on my own! The king is dead, so the *kingdom* is dead.” Bitterly, the words left your lips.

He kneeled on both knees and searched your expression. “No one taught you how to rule? You are the Queen.” You shook your head and went back to bed. “Your majesty.” He sighed and followed you.

“I want to be alone.”

“You cannot abandon your kingdom.” You spoke softly as you held your forehead.

“And what do you know of ruling a kingdom?” He only stared at your unwavering expression. A near laugh on your lips. “What do you know of relying on a man to create change? Unable to do a thing.”

“Actually, I know much of that.”

You smiled and raised from your pillow. “Then you should leave me and my kingdom because I will not pay a single pound to you or your dammed Empire. Why strip me of my army? You and your emperor both know that we do not stand a chance against Rome again!”

“Why should I give you back your army?” He chuckled. “You must understand how ineffective that would be. Strategy-wise.”

“Do you have such a small world scope that you truly believe it is Rome and whatever county you choose to ruin that lies on Earth’s surface?” You scoffed as the man leaned against the wall of your bedroom. “Well, do you?”

“I am aware that the world is vast. Much is to be seen.”

“And conquered?”

“Not everything.” He pulled his fur cloak off and threw it over the back of a chair. “Some places are meant to have other rulers, customs and traditions.” The man added.

“Do you mind pouring me a drink?” You pointed to the drink cart beside him. He didn’t mind, so he poured you a glass of brown liquor and passed the glass to you. You sipped on the drink as you sat up in bed. “Do you always find yourself in the royal quarters of the conquered?”

“Is it often you scream at and point your blade at your conquer?”

You rolled your eyes with disgust and made your way to the blazing fireplace. With a poker, you stabbed the wood and shifted the embers around before looking over your shoulder, “Give me my army back, Maximus.”

“I cannot do that.” He folded his arms and approached your fire.

“I need my army. Every kingdom needs one or else I will be taken by another nearby kingdom. Then what?” He moved hair from over your shoulder and to your back. “You will have to come back and do this all over again.”

“I would not mind doing so.”

You faced him, looking over his expression. “I do not want to see your face again.” You threw back the rest of your drink and he poured more into your glass.

“I find that hard to believe.” You chuckled in his face. The scent of alcohol on your breath. “May I have a drink?”

“What? Your day has been hard?” You laughed louder before frowning, “No. But one thing is for certain. You are not leaving until my men are freed.” He sighed and sat in one of the chairs around the lounging space. “I am not a patient woman, General.”

“I can see that.”

“Will you give me what I need?”

He looked around the room. Over your personal belongings and keepsakes. Paintings and handmade furniture. “You claimed I took everything from you but you have so much here. You are spoiled.”

“Spoiled?!” You threw the remainder of your drink at his face. He grabbed your forearm and pulled you to the ground beneath his feet. You winced although he had not squeezed too tightly. “Bastard!”

“Your majesty, I can assure you: I am no bastard.” He looked down at you. Your round eyes were filled with rage, a pout on your lips. “I am a man of my word. I do not know much but I can tell when I am confronted with stupidity.” He let go of your forearm and held your hair in his fist, pulling your head downward so you could look up at him.

“I hate you.”

“I can understand why.” He spoke down to you. “But you will not get your way. I know this is uncommon for you but everything in this castle is now property of Rome. You are simply borrowing.”

You reached for his face, your long nails aimed for his nose and eyes. The man quickly grabbed your arm and squeezed it before pulling your hair tighter. “A- ah!” You sat between his knees as he looked over you. Although your mind was set on hating him, his rough hold on you was arousing. The warmth of his skin on yours, the closeness of his body made you feel cornered and uncomfortably hot. “I am the Queen of Greater Corsica! Unhand me!”

“You need to calm yourself.” The way he spoke made you feel pathetic and rather helpless. You did not want him to let you go but--- “You are stupid to think I would give you your army. If other attack, so be it. If it happens, the Gods did so.”

“May the Gods damn all of Rome.”

He laughed as you tried to reach for a dagger by his side. He pulled you closer to him and held your neck between his thighs. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt you but to hold you still. You dropped your hand and shut your eyes; your drunken thoughts attempted to piece together a plan to pull from him. “Will you leave me alone about this army thing?” No. You did not want to! You wanted to stay in his warm thighs!

“No!”

“Stubborn. A brat. What else?” The man let of your wrist finally and kept a grip on your hair. The bundle of braids in his fist as he leaned back in the chair. You pushed open his thighs and freed your neck. He shut his thighs again and pulled you closer. “Rather stupid.” For a reason you could not explain, you bit your lip. He squinted at you, “You are…definitely not a Roman woman.”

You were unsure if that were a compliment or not so instead, you stayed in his grip. He opened his thighs and spread his legs. You flared your nostrils at him after he gripped your throat in his strong grip. Your eyes fell to his crotch repeatedly before they shut closed.

“Are you feeling well?” He asked, bringing you closer to him. “You do not look well.” He remarked as you stared up at him; rather dazed and, although the timing was horrible, horny.

“Do not speak to me.”

“Do not speak to you?! Ahh, but your Majesty, that will be hard due to your gaze. I am not made of…what do your people like? Chocolate!” You did not want to show any emotions, but it was too difficult! “Are you confused? Would you like to suck my cock?”

“I hate you.”

“That is not what I asked. Do you need me to repeat myself?” Your breasts heaved against his thigh as he pulled your hair once more. “You and I both know you could have stood up minutes ago.”

“…”

“Get up. Go on.” You shook your head and closed your eyes. He moved his cock from under his clothes. “Open your eyes.” His thick cock curved slightly towards his body; your eyes traced the veins up and down his shaft; precum slipped down from his pink tip to his mid length.

You pressed the flat of your tongue against his cock and drew up. You didn’t know what you were doing or why, but you could not stop. Again, your tongue drew up his twitching cock until you reached the tip. The General groaned, using your hair to control where your head went. He pushed your head lower on his cock, making you choke as he filled your throat. “Look up at me.” You gagged, staring up at him. Your eyes filled with tears as he pushed you lower.

Your saliva coated his cock, and you continued to suck his shaft. Bubbles from your spit covered the base of his dick and popped around your lips. You raise your head to catch your breath and lay your cheek on his thigh. He grabbed your cheeks and squeezed your face. “Finish what you started.” You sighed, your sights on his dick. He tapped his shaft against your lips, and you raise on your knees and hands.

He moans softly as you swirl your tongue, the grip in your hair getting a little bit tighter. His free hand comes up to his mouth, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle his low moans. "Gods you are…so damn…good." He manages to breathe out.

You noticed how his thighs spread more, and he moved to the edge of the seat. He gripped your hair with two hands, pushing your head up and down in assistance. Maximus shut his eyes and listened to the sounds of you gagging and choking on his length. You closed your lips around his cock when you felt him cum in your throat. You kept your head down as he continued to coat the inside of your mouth with lapping ropes of cum.

Maximus pulled you from his cock covered in bubbles of saliva and his own mess. His hands held onto your face; his palms wiped away the sweat from your forehead.

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Dividers from @saradika

Thank you for reading!! Love you! <3 I'm finally showing a face in my cover photo????? This is big news lol he's just really handsome!

[bowlerhatwearer]

I should sleep but, I cannot let go of the thought about a story of Bunnie and Antoine going on vacation in the coyotes homeland and when they get there they end up midst a occupation crisis because a neigbourcountry decided to occupy it, one Antoines former home had a long feud with. Andunfkrtunatly because of the occupiers meddling with the media and transferring information outside of the country they can't contact the rest of the Freedom Fighters. To make the long story short the D'Coolettes end up joining forces with the Résistance in order to stop the occupants in their plan to destroy the whole country and make a burning wasteland without any live out of it.

[10464john]

The Nice Guys 2016 Oneshot Fic.

It's not amazing. But it's good in my opinion🧍👍

[heisen-shrine]

(All of us hanging out tonight...)

Karl: hey um babe...I got a question.

Me: yeah honey whats up?

Karl: what's with you and dudes with hats?

Me: I beg your pardon?

Astarion: well you clearly have a type darling.

Me: what? I so do not have a type!

Elijah: (channel surfing, laughs in heavy sarcasm) this is gonna be good.

Otto: ash...honey...I've known you since you were rather young. Believe me when I say you do have a type.

Me: I so DO NOT!

Karl: uh I wear a hat.

Me: okay that doesn't mean I have a type!

Astarion: what ever happened to making that Cad Bane fellow an F/O?

Me: .....shut up. Corey Burton has a nice voice and blue is my favorite color. Shut up.

Elijah: remember the rattlesnake from rango? You made a whole fanfiction about him.

Me: To be fair, I wrote that for someone else not me...and again, Bill Nighy has a nice voice! Sue me!

Otto: hm...Russell Crowe in Winters Tale?

Me: okay he looked interesting, so what?

Otto: you wrote a whole fanfic...for yourself...oh and um...let me bring out the big gun...

Me: (blushing at this point) Otto Octavius, I swear to God! (Arms myself with pillow)

Karl: ooooo this is gonna be good!

Astarion: oh spill all the tea why don't you?

Elijah: (now thinks us all more interesting than television) oh do tell!

Otto: Kalma from Lordi...

Me: (red faced, beats Otto with pillow) I. Was. In. High. School!!!!!!

(They're all laughing at me now...apparently I do have a type...)