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cherrixpie · 3 days ago

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HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part three of five

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it. only, theo was starting to get reckless with your secret.

↬ sfw; angst + hurt/comfort; wc: 3.0k; cw: none; secret relationship trope, potter!reader, griffindor! reader

thank you for all the supportive comments! wait for part four for the big showdown...

The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in a soft layer of snow, the air filled with the mingling scents of spiced cider and chocolate wafting from the shops. You tugged your scarf tighter against the biting wind, walking beside Harry while Ron and Hermoine trailed just behind, arguing about the practicality of enchanted earmuffs. The (way too) early christmas decorations hung from every storefront, casting warm, golden light onto the snow-covered cobblestones, and the faint sounds of caroling witches and wizards drifted down from somewhere near the Three Broomsticks.

“Can we stop at Honeydukes before we head back?” Ron asked, cutting off a string of heated reasons for her argument by Hermoine who glared at him darkly. “Honestly, Ron, that is your biggest concern? Buying chocolate frogs?”

Sharing a glance, both you and Harry rolled your eyes at their bickering. You chose to defend Ron, partly because if he hadn't proposed the trip to Honeydukes, you’d have. “It’s a valid concern. Not everyone can survive on determination and revision schedules, Hermione.”

The only response you received was a long sigh, audible even over the whistling wind. When a particularly strong squall almost knocked him against a house front, Harry cursed, glowering at the restless sky. “If the weather stays the same ‘til tomorrow's game, we’ll be knocked off our brooms before we can make Malfoy lose.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at him. “Don't you mean, before we can win? Honestly, Harry, I think you’re approaching this very unproductively.” Ruffling a hand through his unruly hair, you smiled at his grim huff. “On the other hand, if petty hostility makes you fly better-”

“You’ve done this a lot lately,” Ron cut you off, earning another pissed look by Hermoine. “Defending them snakes.”

You had? Not that you had noticed, but yes, you may have subconsciously been a little defensive when your friends had badmouthed the Slytherins, seeing as you were dating one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people you knew, who happened to also be a Slytherin. “I am merely advocating for proportionality,” you mumbled, but your voice was picked up by a gust of wind, carried to the wrong ears.

You heard them before you saw them- a drawled out voice from behind, having the four of you turn on your heels. “Advocating for proportionality, are you, Potter? How very noble. I’m sure the world is thrilled to hear another Potter lecture.” A large group of Slytherins had been approaching from behind, unnoticed by all of you. Though shielded by green-bronze scarfs, you could make out the faces of your Slytherin classmates, as well as some sixth years. Flickering over the group, your eyes found Theo's and they locked in silent understanding. If you weren't mistaken, he gave you a little wink, but that might just as well have been a product of your imagination.

“That's rich,” Harry snarled back, ignoring your tugging at his robes to keep going. “Coming from you, Malfoy, who loves to hear himself talk so much he gets himself friends as silent listeners that applaud everything he says!”

Sensing an approaching conflict, you quickly counted the heads of the Slytherin group- you were looking at a four to ten ratio.

Red shot up into Malfoy’s cheeks and you caught a movement of his hand, sliding towards his wand. “Better be careful talking like that, Potter, didn't your parents ever reach you not to pick fights when you’re outmatched? Oh, wait,” he laughed gloatingly and you buried your hands in your brother’s robe in a preventive manner. “Guess they didn't have the chance before they were blown to bits!”

But your warning glare didn't only fix Harry, you had caught a dangerous look in Theo’s eyes as well. As if he had felt his eyes on you, he returned your gaze and his expression softened slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU TWAT!” Ron bellowed from next to you, shaking his clenched fists. Both you and Hermoine shot forward to hold him back, but you made the fatal mistake of letting go of your livid brother, who barged at Malfoy, not even bothering to pull out his wand. His fist collided with his face the moment Ron followed hot on his heels, tackling a surprised Zabini.

“Merlin,” Hermoine muttered and pulled out her wand. Neither of you got to join in the brawl, though, because a very exasperated Theo had strode forward, separated Blaise and Ron and jinxed both Drace and Harry in one move, making both of them jump back and stumble. Some of his friends groaned at him, deprived of the easy victory, but his infamous death glare brought upon them silence in an instant.

Before they could cause any more trouble, you ushered Ron and Harry back on their feet with Hermoine's help, hastily steering them away from the group.

“Hey, Potter!”

Both you and Harry turned around, but the Slytherin sixth year that had spoken was looking at you. “Spare us the moral superiority in the future. You’re as self-absorbed as your little Gryffindor gang. The way you talk, it’s no wonder you don’t have many friends outside Gryffindor. Who could stand you?”

Ouch.

The hurt must have been visible in your features for a second, because his friends howled and patted his shoulder in appreciation. Harry tensed under your grip, but you tightened it and pulled him along as you walked away, Hermoine and Ron hot on your heels.

The whistles and cackles of the group followed you all the way to Honeydukes. Neither of you spoke, Harry seemed to be fuming and you didn't dare say anything to set him off.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You weren't, and you looked at Hermoine apologetically. Instead of listening to whatever your friend had to say, your gaze had gotten lost somewhere at the Slytherin table. Particularly fixed on the dark haired boy in between Riddle and Malfoy, with the face of a brooding storm. Even from the far end of the great hall, you knew the expression as not simply his moodiness but simmering anger, meticulously controlled.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely and fixed your attention on Hermoine. “What were you saying?”

Sighing, Hermoine flipped open the evening edition of the daily prophet. Some snowflakes were still caught up in her hair, relics of your visit to Hogsmeade. “You’re awfully distracted. Is it because of what that idiot Langley said?”

“Who?” you asked, even though you knew exactly who she meant. His comment had hurt you, but it was nothing you wouldn't get over. No, what held your attention in a vice-like grip that felt oh so gentle was your dear secret boyfriend who, at this exact moment, rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, undoubtedly going for a smoke to the astronomy tower.

Hermoine passed your question over, opting to pretend to read the newspaper as you could feel her careful eyes on you. “He’s in the hospital wing, you know? Langley, I mean.”

“Did he choke on his spite?” You asked absentmindedly, swirling your fork through your soup as your eyes followed Theo leaving the Great Hall. The elegance of his long strides, his upright posture, the bounce of his dark curls. It was probably as good a time as ever to realize that you were utterly and irreversibly in love with that man.

“He got hexed, nobody knows by whom. But they contemplated sending him to St. Mungos, seems like he was hexed within an inch of his life,” Hermoine explained and a realization dawned on you. An image flashed before your waking eye- Theo's expression when you had shoved Harry away. You did believe him capable of hexing Langley into St. Mungos. But you also believed him capable of a high level of intelligence that was missing from this situation.

“Was he?” you asked in a neutral voice and Hermoine nodded, no longer pretending to be interested in the newspaper. “Rumor has it that Nott hexed him, but no eye witnesses have confirmed it to the teachers. Too scared of him and his friends, probably.”

You gave up on your fruitless attempts to transport the soup to your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and shouldered your bag with a little more force than necessary. “I think I’m going to head to the astronomy tower, I still need to finish some star charts for Professor Sinistra.”

The heavy wooden door of the astronomy tower slammed open when you marched through forcefully, the sound echoing through the chilly, starlit space. Theo didn't flinch as you slammed your bag onto the ground. He was, of course, already there, leaning against the stone wall, cigarette perched between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. It illuminated his face that was calm, almost indifferent. But the sharp line of his jaw gave him away. He’d been waiting for this.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you snapped, marching toward him with a heaving chest, partly from your run up the stairs, partly of fury. “What were you thinking, hexing Langley in broad daylight, in front of half the school if you can believe the rumors? Are you trying to get us caught?”

Theo exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face like a shield. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly composed. “That guy deserved worse for what he said to you.”

You’d be lying if his dangerous dark eyes and the gravely tone of his voice didn't do something for you, paired with the fact that he had sent someone to the Hospital wing for you. But that wasn't the point right now. “You were reckless, Theo. What will your friends think? That you just snapped on a whim and decided to hospitalize the guy you hung out with?”

“They’ll trust that I have my reasons,” Theo said smoothly, making not attempts to step closer to your heaving form or meet your eye.

“And what if they believe that reason is me?” you challenged him. When he looked up, your eyes locked and the intensity of his gaze knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

“Then they do,” he simply said, making you gasp in protest. With a flick of his wrist, golden embers rained from his cigarette. “It would not be the end of the world. You wouldn't care, would you?” His gaze grew sharper and you felt utterly disarmed. “You only care that your brother and your Griffindor friends don't find out you’re dating a Slytherin.”

“I know where you’re going with this,” you pressed through pursed lips. “And it's not fair. If you were ready to admit to everyone you’re seeing the Chosen One’s sister, you’d already have.”

The force with which Theo stepped forward caught you off guard. Stopping in front of you, he leaned down and a cloud of smoke pulled you in. “I’ll do it,” he whispered to you, watching your reaction closely. “I’ll go right now and shout it from the fucking rooftops.” Crooking his head, he took a step back. “But you wouldn't want that, would you?”

You didn't answer, because you knew he was right. It was you who was trying to keep this relationship quiet, but it wasn't like you didn't have your reasons. One of them being how your friends would react, sure, but since Theo’s father was a death eater, the Order could see you as a liability as well.

Theo called your name and as if on command, you looked up at him. The cigarette lay glowing on the floor, he hadn't even bothered to smother the embers with his boot. “Are you ashamed of me?” There was a guarded vulnerability in his voice. So rare that you could do nothing but stare at him for a few seconds. Theo waited patiently, but he watched every little change of expression.

“I’m not,” you finally managed to say after you found your voice. You took a pleading step towards him, but he took one back as if on chance. “Are you sure?” he asked and a hint of bitterness laced his composed voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fine with me being your dirty little secret.”

“You’re- you’re not-,” you stammered, your insides were squeezing painfully with the look he gave you. “Theo, you have to understand my situation here! I mean, you didn't even attempt to! You don’t understand what it’s like, Theo. I can’t just… parade this around. Harry, Ron, Hermione-they’d never let it go. And don’t get me started on the rest of Gryffindor!”

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. “You’re an idiot.” Flinching at his tone, you took a step back, but he stalked towards you predatorily. “Do you think you’re the only one who is under pressure here? Last time I checked, the people you answer to aren't ruthless murderers.”

He was right, you knew he was right. But there was a small, defiant part of you that just didn't want to accept it. “Just because you’re ready to tell them doesn't mean I am. They all see me as this perfect girl. I don’t get to make mistakes.”

This goddamn raised eyebrow that managed to stun anyone to silence appeared on his beautiful face. “And I’m the mistake, is that it? Great to know where I stand, Potter.”

“I didn't say that!” you protested, running your hands through your hair in frustration. Theo smiled bitterly. “You didn’t have to. You’d rather keep this quiet, pretend it’s not happening, because being with me doesn’t fit your perfect Gryffindor image.”

Anger started to bubble up in your chest once more and you clenched your fists, infuriated by his seemingly indifferent calm. “You think this is easy for me? Sneaking around, lying to my friends? If they found out about us, they’d never trust me again!” Your breath got caught in your throat as your voice grew quiet. “You don’t get it, Theo. I can’t afford to mess this up. People expect me to be perfect, and being with you… it’s not the safe choice. But it’s my choice, okay? Doesn’t that mean something?”

With an abrupt turn, Theo walked towards the railing and turned his back to you. A ruffle, a click, a soft golden glow and finally, a cloud of smoke rising from his figure as if he was burning from the inside. His voice was so hushed you had trouble understanding it, drawing closer but still keeping your distance. “You know, for someone so stubborn, you’re really bad at fighting with me.”

“That’s because I don’t want to fight with you.” you said imploringly, taking tentative steps toward him. Though he most certainly noticed even the most quiet of sounds, he didn't turn around. A long sigh left Theo’s lips and a large puff of smoke rose up to the stars. “Neither do I.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers. “I know I’m not handling this the way you deserve.”

Finally, Theo turned around to you and you were taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his expression. Theo’s features were often closed off, hard to read, unmovable. But now, his eyes were heavy with emotion- a mix of regret and sadness, though a light smile played along his lips. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m just asking for you to … trust me.”

You closed the distance between you and Theo exhaled the last puff of smoke into the chilly night air before he stepped on his cigarette. His arms reached for you and you almost threw yourself into them. You hated fighting. Once around you, his hold tightened and you felt your face pressed up against his warm chest. The tremble of an exhale left your lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed in his hold. “I do, Theo. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I wouldn’t be doing this- any of this- if I didn’t think you were worth it.”

You only got a soft rumble of his chest in response. His smell surrounded you, clouded you, and you thought to yourself you might get addicted to cigarettes if he kept smelling like them. “This might be a bad time for stuff like that, but… I've never felt like this about anyone.”

When you lifted your head from his chest, you found him already looking at you. And you had to appreciate how he must have turned down every wall he had so carefully constructed around himself to look at you with such a raw expression. “Me neither,” he almost breathed, locking your fingers. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Tesoro, your hands are ice bricks.”

“Why don't you kiss them better, then?” you asked hopefully, relieved to see a smile appear on his face. Theo brought your locked hands up to his lips and pressed slow, gentle kisses to the back of your hand. The soft tingle that followed his touch warmed your whole body.

“We’re going to have to actually talk about this, you know.” he said and you nodded slightly.

“I know. Just… not tonight.”

tag list: @annaisabookworm @empath-bunny @k0z3me @slutfordpr @aespaslut @kiarst @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not @fakem0net @sammyreid @tulipsc @yasmin-oviedo @lazycrazyme

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theo nott x you #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x you

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with-my-calamitous-love · 17 hours ago

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too young / too dumb / to know things like love

katsuki bk. x f! reader

when perhaps one of the most heartbreaking and stressful relationship of your entire life comes to an end, katsuki can’t resist having you for one more night. angst/smut, breakup sex, y/a katsuki

@crushmeeren the snippet i left in ur inbox 🫧 thank you for all your love

another big kiss for u, 5sos nation 🤍 inspired by ghost of you

7:09 am.

katsuki wakes up, still pushed to one corner of the bed. he has the entire king size to himself, but remains unable to sleep on that side of the bed. your side.

he groans when he sits up, pain in his shoulders and a dull throb in his heart. red eyes flicker over to the leftover coffee mug on the beside. as time passes, your lipstick stain fades. but he doesn’t need the satin red makeup left on your favourite mug to remember how your lips felt, the way they tasted.

he wishes to go back to sleep, to dream long enough for you to tell him he’d be fine. he wants to believe that, to hold onto it. even if you know he’ll find himself drowning out his pain, dancing through his house alone, he hopes you’ll lie to him.

worst of all? so many saw it coming. but you both hoped, foolishly so, that you could defy the odds.

you didn’t.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.*

“so thats it?” you ask, but its more like a statement than anything. the finality in your tone isn’t lost on katsuki. the plates in the sink are left unwashed, dinner cold and neglected. the couch mourns the couple that once embraced on it, floorboards preparing to only creak for one.

years of training, of self doubt, surviving a war and becoming a hero, and the hardest thing katsuki has ever done was walk away from you.

“i have to do this.” he chokes back tears. “you’re not happy. i’m not either

and you want to lie and tell him he’s wrong, but he’s not and that what makes you so fucking angry. he’s hoping his absence will give you the peace his love couldn’t.

“i’ll give you your sweaters back.” you say, not knowing what else to add. you’re hoping he’ll say no. keep them. there yours. they’ve always been.

instead: “thanks, babe.”

“don’t fucking call me that!” you snap, tears spilling like a broken dam.

its at that moment when it sets in for him. when he realizes this’ll be the last time he sees you, or hears your voice. that from now on, he’ll have to drown it out, dancing through his apartment with nothing but the phantoms of what was.

“…sorry, [y/n].” he hesitantly steps closer. he wishes he could yell, be the asshole you know him for. but he right now, he’s wounded, returning only half his weight. he was losing his favourite part of him.

almost pathetically so, you jump into his arms, sobbing into his chest despite the anger you feel in your bones. he doesn’t think twice before wrapping his arms around yours, pulling you into him like its the last time. it is.

“fuck you, katsuki.” you cry, and he takes it. “yeah, fuck you too, [y/n].”

he says right before kissing you, but its different this time. there’s desperation in it, to feel you, to make this goodbye count.

as much as you try to, you know you love katsuki when you can’t hate him for breaking your heart. you tug him in by his collar, dragging the two of you to the couch. cries turn into moans, pain remains more or less the same.

he’s already shirtless, something he was always comfortable doing around you. he’s so hot it makes you mad, almost wishing you wore something nicer than his old zeppelin shirt thats too big it pools at your waist.

but he doesn’t care. katsuki will fuck you no matter what, evident by how he doesn’t even bother to take it off all the way, impatient. he grabs the hem, dragging it just above your chest. its no secret he wants to see your tits bounce and face flush when he’s buried deep in you.

your morning him, and the fact that from here on out you’ll never get a dick this good.

he rubs circles on your clothed clit, rough, hypnotizing you. he has to resist the urge to slam himself into you right away. he’s already breaking your heart, he doesn’t need to hurt your pussy in the process.

but maybe you don’t care anymore, whispering in his ear. “c’mon, kats, i want you.”

his breath hitches, red eyes looking concerned. “you sure?”

“just fucking do it.”

normally, he’d tease you, tell you to be patient. but he’s not patient either, moving your panties to the side before sliding himself into you. you both moan in relief. it doesn’t take long before he starts thrusting.

“i’m sorry. i’m so fuckin’ sorry.” he almost cries, kissing his apology into your skin, his cock deeply embedded into you. he normally likes it rough, getting you on your knees and pressing you into the pillow. but right now, he needs to see you- all of you. he knows this might be the last time.

“fuck, you feel so good, katsuki.” you whisper, cupping his face while he takes deep, intimate strokes. even on the verge of destruction, even as forever falls apart, he’s still able to make love and pleasure blossom from your heart and mind. he has that hold on you, that even if you married another man the next minute, he’d still have the key to parts of you you never knew you had.

hearing his name roll off of your tongue already breaks his heart. he swears that in another universe, this works. that right after he plants his release deep in you, kissing you through your orgasm, blurring the lines between fucking and making love, he’d hold you close and wake up to your face the next morning. and when that morning comes, he’ll head off to his agency after kissing you goodbye. he’ll think of you, of protecting you, of putting you at the centre of everything he fights for. even after this all ends, he still thinks that’ll be true. even if you lose your love for him.

“where do you want me to finish, baby?” he grits out, knowing he won’t be able to call you baby anymore. for a second you think of correcting him, but resign.

“just.. do it in me.” you cry. “i don’t want you pulling out.”

“fuck, you sure ‘bout that?” he grits, but he’s not complaining. he can’t give you forever, or even proper love, but if you want it, he can give you this.

you muster out a nod, his forehead pressed against yours. he feels that your close and so is he, his pace not faltering for even a moment. this really is the last time.

and when he releases, your mind whites out in pleasure. he makes sure to get as deep into you as humanly possible, wanting every lewd drop of him nestled deep in you. he groans into your ear, riding out your pleasure with a few more thrusts before collapsing next to you.

he pulls you in, almost on instinct. tomorrow it’ll be over, but you gave him tonight.

“you fucking idiot.” he whispers, though you’re not sure if he means you or him. either way, it’d make sense. idiot was his rude, endearing nickname name for you. idiot was also how he felt about himself, losing you.

“i love you.” you say, not knowing whats next, but knowing that whatever it is, it can wait till the sun rises.

“i love you so fucking much.”

and he’s happy that those are his last words to you, because the next day, he wakes up alone.

he pats the spot where you laid on the couch. he’s hurt, but not surprised. all his things are there, but its empty. haunted.

and he’ll find other girls, models, pro heroes, names he can’t remember. he’ll lay them down on his couch, hold their hands, kiss them or even love them. you’ll find other guys to unbutton your blouse, to lend you sweaters and promise you forever. but theres a deep understanding between both you and katsuki.

it’ll never be the same like what it was with you.

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parkerluvsu · 2 days ago

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day 18: punishment <3

authors note: this is totally late im so sorry.. also i am skipping day 19, partially because im extremely tired and also because i don't know how to incorporate food into sex <3

art knew what he was doing was wrong, he just didn't care. he was past the point of caring.

you've been away for weeks (2 to be exact) and art hasn't jerked off at all since you've left. sure.. he's brushed up against his pillow while he's going to sleep one too many times, and sure hes "accidentally" stroked himself a little too much in the shower.. but he's been good!! he's been your good boy and followed your orders. until now.

you texted art that your flight was running late, grounded for about 2 hours because of the winter storm currently running its course outside the airport.

"sorry artie, flight is delayed cuz of weather, don't wait up for me baby, might not even be home tonight"

"okay :( i miss you soooo much, text me when u land pls"

"alright angel, will do :) love u <3"

"love u too <3"

art sighs and flops on the unbearably empty bed, flinging his phone a little farther than he meant to and wincing. he looks down at his cock slowly filling out in his jeans and groans. what is he supposed to do without you here? as thoughts of you start to cloud his mind, art can't stop thinking that if he just jerked off really quick and got rid of all the evidence, you wouldn't know it, and you'd come back none the wiser and he wouldn't get punished. great plan right? wrong.

after furiously jerking off until he cums himself silly, art finds himself totally unable to clean up after himself, cum stating to dry on his blanket and stomach, as well as tissues strewn about the bed. art sighs and tries to fight the sleepiness that clouds his mind and makes his eyelids droop more and more. he thinks to himself that he'll clean himself up before you get back, and drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.

��*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

you arrive at your apartment door hauling your heavy suitcase and back pack behind you, trying your best not to jingle your keys too much and wake up art. you carefully unlock the door and push your bags inside, slipping off your shoes and walking into the house tiredly, wanting nothing more to sleep for 20 hours. you're stopped however, when you round the corner and see art splayed out on your bed, absolutely naked, cuddling your pillow with a cum stained blanket bedside him. you sigh, leaning down to pick up the scattered tissues and throw them away. when you're done with that, you gently sit next to art, trying to pull away the dirty blanket from him and replace it with a new one.

art senses the movement and awakens, first being elated to see your face, and then shocked at the fact that he was caught red-handed. "h-hi.." art looks away from you and blushes. "hey artie.. you gonna tell me what happened?" you coo at him softly, tricking his brain into thinking he won't get punished. "w-well i jus' missed you so much and then when you said you weren't gonna be home for a while i just couldn't handle it anymore.. b-but i swear i didn't do anything while you were away!! except for that.." art rambles, trying to plead his case in front of you. you smile and nod, reaching out to cup his face. art sighs, he's safe. "... but you remember what the rule was, right?"

arts eyes snap open from their blissful state. "w-what?" art is starting to lose his composure, guilt washing through him. "the rule? remember.. before i left i told you that you weren't allowed to masturbate at all while i was gone. and you broke the rule artie.." you say with a pout on your face. "l-listen 'm sorry, 'm really sorry.. you understand right? i- just couldn't take it anymore.." you shake your head, "you know that i have to punish you right? it's what i told you would happen if you broke the rules.." art nods sadly, trying to charm you with his puppy-dog eyes but you're stronger than that, not falling for his tricks.

art tries his best to hide his obvious arousal from you, but you see how hard he is through the blanket he's covering himself with. you inch closer to him, gently pulling the blanket off of him, watching as his cock slaps against his stomach. art whines and looks away from you, moaning softly when you grip him in your hand. even though he's already practically empty from cumming earlier. you stroke him up and down gently, smiling happily when he bucks his hips up to meet your touch, feeling like he's halfway to heaven after not feeling your touch on him the whole time you've been away.

arts head is in the clouds, watching as you stroke him faster and faster, your hand getting slick from all of the precum drooling out of him. you know he's getting close, his hips move faster, almost fucking your hand, as his moans turn almost girlish. "'m gettin' close.. it feels s' good.. thankyouthankyouthankyou..." art doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before you rip your hand off of him, leaving art to pathetically hump the air to try to finish himself off, but it's no use, his orgasm is completely ruined. art has tears brimming in his eyes, "w-why did you do that.. i- i was s' close.." his lower lip wobbles. you tilt your head to the side, hand smoothing over his milky thigh. "what do you mean artie? i told you that you'd be punished, did you forget so easy?" art frowns, shaking his head. "i- i didn't forget i just.. it's unfair" he pouts. you smile and bring art closer to you, cuddling him against your sternum.

"i know.. and im sorry.. you know i hate when you're sad, but you have to learn your lesson yeah?" you press a kiss to his forehead. art nods, cuddling up to you. "yeah.. 'm sorry really, it's just cuz i missed you so much" art says quietly, blushing a little bit. "i missed you too artie, don't worry, ill make it up to you soon" <3

#parkerluvsu #parker.talks #art donaldson #challengers x reader #challengers 2024 #challengers #art donaldson x reader #challengers smut #art donaldson smut #31 days of smut

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zepskies · 3 days ago

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@lamentationsofalonelypotato

LOLL girl I totally get it, but I don't think you have to be scared on this one. It's a nice little slow burn fic with cozy winter vibes. 😘 And like you, I LOVE soulmate/true mate/fates mate AUs too. It's definitely a mix of forced proximity and grumpy/sunshine, which you know I can't stop writing that dynamic for some reason. 😂😂

But here we go!! Diving into the rest of your lovely comments...

The physical description of Dean is SO good. The use of "stern" and "stubborn" as descriptors fits well for Dean.

Hahaaa thank you, lovely!! Stern brows and a stubborn chin felt inherently Dean to me.

Oh suuuurrrreeee keep telling yourself that Dean.

Lmfao right? Denial of the purest form. 🙄

So what you're saying is... she's trapped in a cabin, she's got a broken ankle, in the middle of a snowstorm with no way out and no communications, with a ruggedly hot mountain man with gorgeous green eyes, a gruff exterior, and a mysterious past... Sign👏🏻 Me👏🏻 Up

That is EXACTLY what I'm saying. 😏

(Also that How to Train Your Dragon gif made me smile -- I love that movie!!)

So ready for Dean to just obliterate all her other experiences with total jerks.

Oh he already is! You def know where I'm going with this. 😏

I live for the after a nightmare comfort trope (if it is a trope? 🧐) and I am SO happy you put this in. Oh my goodness it was so sweet of him to come check on her, and for you to give us a little bit of insight inside of Dean's POV during those moments where she was terrified. This part stuck out to me, because the man is already hook, line, and sinker. He literally tried to go to a cabin in the middle of the woods to get away from it all, but fate really has an odd way of catching up to you. Can't exactly run from it Dean.

Aww me too!! I love hurt/comfort moments almost as much as pure fluff moments. Dean really is fighting for his life emotionally in this loll. His instincts as an alpha (and her mate) are warring with his brain, and it was really fun to write that aspect of Dean's angst post-season 15.

OOooooooOOOooooo shots fired. SHOTS FIRED... But did she stutter??

She, in fact, did NOT stutter.

I'm losing it over the fact that Sam named his son DEAN Jr. 😂🥰 And also the bit about "running full speed into glass doors" is making me cackle lol.

Ahaha idk if that was actually canon or if that's something we in the fandom started writing and I just rolled with it. 😂 I'm pretty sure it's canon that Sam named his son after his uncle? But oh yeah, the running full speed into glass doors was taken straight out of my childhood. 🤣🤣

This line is so Dean, it's PERFECT, and I really love that it was what made the reader try to snort her diet Pepsi.

LOL thank you!! I think I grabbed part of it from season 12 where they go to Hollywood/L.A., but I thought it was quintessential Dean. 🤣

And I just want to say thank you for giving Dean the kinda "homemaker" role in this fic. The fact that he's making food for the reader (I'm obsessed with men who can cook) and taking care of her is just:

Omg yeesss, I love malewife Dean lmao. He's just such a caretaker at heart, and an awesome cook! I can so picture him making big breakfasts for his kids on weekends and packing their lunches for school. 🥹

Oh no Dean, you're not like the Cabin in that way. The cabin is made of strong aged wood that keeps out the chill and is full of warmth! The cabin withstands the elements and doesn't fall no matter how hard the howling wind blows! Dang it, I have way too many emotions over that line. Alex, why did you have to do this to me 😭 It's SO GOOD!!

Dean's self-deprecating angst is like a necessary evil for his character. I'm so glad the cabin metaphor resonated with you the way I intended, even if it breaks my heart too!! 😭😭💙💙

And I'm not sure if you were trying to say that the reader was also a little skeptical about the true mates and if it is a real thing that happens, but I can't wait for part 2 to see if they actually admit it to each other or if they try to keep it a secret as long as they can! Also the song choice perfectly fits the vibes in this fic 👌🏻

Oh yeah, there's some of that too! She's more open to it now than Dean, but I thought we needed some realism where she's also skeptical true mates are even real -- until she met Dean. How strongly they both are reacting to each other physically, but not wanting to admit it yet, and the reader just wanting to know more about Dean before she begins to trust him, all of that is going to continue playing out in Part 2. 💓💓

Oh thank you on the song choice!! Of course Bob Seger has featured on the show in a big way with "Night Moves," so I thought "Against the Wind" felt very Dean, especially in a post-S15 AU.

My lovely friend, this was so good and I can't wait for part 2!!!

Thank you sooooo very much, my friend!! 🥹🥹 Part 2 is dropping later today!! 🥳💕💕

Against the Wind - Part 1

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: This is a canon ending-divergent AU, but still an Omegaverse story within the canon world. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: A/B/O dynamics, scenting, injuries, hints of angst, fluff and feels.

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 1: In His Hands

Your body is mostly numb when he pulls you out of the snow.

You utter a sharp cry when something in your side twinges, waking up your entire body like a white-hot shiv. Your ankle begins to throb as well.

“Hold on. I’ve got you.”

You only half hear the voice, a deep, coarse rumble. His form is broad and dark and blurry, but his male scent is the only thing you register with perfect clarity.

Alpha.

A small treble of alarm runs through you. It’s an instinct you’ve had to learn, as an omega traveling alone in rural Montana. However, something else disrupts that anxiety.

It’s his scent. His scent is like the crackle and smoke of a warm hearth.

Safe. Your body is heavy and stiff and doesn’t respond to your commands, and yet, you feel a measure of calm when he maneuvers you into his arms. It’s a baser instinct, rooted deep in your chest. He begins to carry you down the slope of the mountain, and your vision blurs white…

Like the flurry of snow falling heavy on his jacket.

You wake up freezing and shivering in pain. A sensation of small sharp needles begins to travel all across your skin. Slowly, as you're able to blink, your view of the dark wood cabin clears and focuses. You realize that you’re bundled in blankets, and laying on a chaise in front of a large fireplace. Still, you’re too cold. A keening whimper escapes you as you try to burrow in.

Alpha. Your body instinctively recognizes his presence, as he’s suddenly there, hovering close above you with a divot between his brows and a frown marring his face, where thick stubble threatens to become a beard. Stern, dark brows are furrowed over his concerned eyes. His plush frown is framed by a stubborn-looking chin. Your gaze wearily travels over his handsome features, his short brown hair, the flickers of firelight that splash across the side of his face.

He places a warm, calloused hand on your forehead, and he mutters a curse. Your body trembles further with cold. You part your lips, but you can't yet force your voice to escape them.

Again, he quite literally takes the problem into his own hands. He peels away the thick blankets just to slide himself in behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you feel their tempered strength when they cage you in against him. You manage to turn your head and rest your cheek against his chest, covered by red plaid. Thank you...

Almost on reflex, you breathe in his scent deeply. The earthiness of it calms you, warms you from the inside. Your shivering eventually calms and turns to purring in your chest.

“What’s your name, Omega?” he asks. His voice is deep and gruff, and it threatens to make you shiver for a different reason as the timbre of it washes over you.

It’s difficult, but you manage to speak, clearing past your parched throat to give him your name. He nods, as if rolling the sound of it back and forth across his mind.

“Was somebody out there with you?” he asks.

You shake your head, even though the thought elicits a painful twinge in your heart.

“Who…” you try to speak again, even though it hurts a little. “Who are you?”

You feel him take a deep breath. He hesitates, like he’s reluctant to give it to you.

“Dean,” he says.

You roll the name around in your head, over and over. Dean, Dean, Dean…

You smile slightly. “Yeah, makes sense.”

“What?” he says. You hear the raised brow in his tone.

“You sound like a Dean,” you say, perhaps a little delirious.

Anyway, that’s when your eyes close on you again. You fall back into the warm lull of sleep, to the sound of a crackling fire, and a feeling that permeates throughout your body.

Safe.

Can’t fucking believe this, Dean thinks, as he holds you. Just when he thought his life was done throwing him curveballs.

He tips his head back against the sofa cushion with a tired exhale. It would just be his luck to find a stray omega wandering his stretch of Big Sky. Montana can be gnarly in the winter, but for the past couple of years, Dean has learned to survive here in this rental cabin for a couple of months at a time, when wandering an empty bunker gets to be too much. At least here the quiet’s peaceful, if still a little unnerving sometimes.

He glances down at you. Now that you’re warm and sleeping again, he should find something to wrap your ankle and ice it down. It’s swollen, and he wants to take an inventory of your other injuries, so he can determine how to get you back down the mountain and through the woods, back to civilization.

The sooner he gets you medical attention and back to your life, the sooner he can get back to his—even though the thought of leaving you in anyone else’s hands almost stirs a growl in his throat.

And that last part unnerves him, makes him anxious. He begins to untangle himself from you, but his movements falter when your sweet scent filters through his nose again. Cinnamon apples, with a hint of something floral.

Fuck me.

It’s almost too sweet to be true, but Dean does his best to ignore it…and what that alluring sweetness probably means.

Dean leaves you in the morning to revisit the site where you fell. He digs through the snow and manages to find your backpack, filled with your clothes, supplies, and your phone and wallet. He returns just in time.

The falling snow becomes even more intense, until it becomes a quiet roar outside. You watch the snowstorm through the impact windows in the kitchen, and you know what this means. You’re snowed in with a stranger—an alpha, no less.

You also have a bum ankle, which he wrapped for you. Doesn’t feel broken, he’d said, but it could be fractured, or at the very least sprained. You also likely have a couple of cracked ribs.

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” he asks, while pouring himself a glass of whiskey. “This ain’t exactly hiking season.”

While you drink some hot chocolate he made you with a bit of whiskey splashed in (for extra warmth), you explain.

“Well, I guess it wasn’t my best idea in hindsight,” you say with a weak chuckle. “I was trying to find my way back, and I…well, I was a bit lost.”

He raises his brows wryly, still sipping.

“And to make a great situation even better, I thought I heard a wolf howl nearby,” you say. “I know most of them would rather run from us than attack us, but you can’t be sure, you know? I had my rifle on me, so I was turning around, trying to pinpoint what direction it was in…and of course, my foot slipped on something.”

You fell down that hill. You think you even hit a tree on the way down, which would explain your ribs. Everything gets a bit swirly, cold, and dark in your memory after that.

Dean shakes his head. “Gotta say, going out there alone wasn’t a great idea either, especially now. This time of year, there’s no telling when a blizzard like this is going to come through.”

He waves haphazardly toward the storm raging outside. Your gaze falls to the mug in your hands. You don’t really want to talk about your reasons for taking that risk, but maybe giving him a little honesty will get him off your back.

“My dad and I used to hike up here every year,” you confess. “A few months ago…I lost him. So I guess this was just something I needed to do.”

You blow on your hot chocolate before you take another sip. This time when you glance up, Dean’s judgy expression has evened out into something more sympathetic. He lowers his glass.

“Well, hate to break it to you, but there’s no cell service up here,” he says.

You give a humorless huff. “Believe me, I know.”

“Which means no one can come up here and get you,” he continues, “and even when this storm breaks, I can’t carry you all the way down the mountain back to civilization. Not with the snow as deep as it’s gonna get. Now…maybe I can go down by myself and bring help back with me.”

“But another storm could snow me in,” you realize, with growing apprehension at the thought.

Dean nods. “It’s either I take that chance, leave you by yourself. Or we wait for you to heal up.”

He leaves the choice up to you with a gesture of his hand, the one still wrapped around his glass. You weigh those options with a tilt of your head. On one hand, you don't want to impose on him longer than you had to, but on the other, you really don't want to be left alone in this cabin for God knows how long while he scales the mountain by himself, for your sake.

“I think it would be better if we go down together, right? It can be dangerous, even when the storm breaks,” you reply.

Dean nods slowly, like that was what he was going to suggest too. “All right. Well, until you’ve got two working legs, you’re stuck here with me.”

“I figured as much,” you say. Your head tilts as you consider him. He has a gruff exterior, but all his actions so far have been kind, and far more than you’d expect from a stranger. And an alpha at that.

Not to say that all alpha's are assholes, but you've had far too many experiences with the stereotype: arrogant, entitled, and handsy. Can't forget handsy.

“Thank you for saving me,” you say, meeting his gaze, “and for…well, being a decent guy.”

Dean’s lips twitch. He nearly chuckles. Instead, he sits back on his side of the couch.

“Yeah, well, there’s a spare room in this place for you, one bathroom. The kitchen is stocked. I’m a half-decent cook, if I say so myself, but help yourself.”

He gets up from the couch without preamble, to go to his room, you assume. It leaves you feeling at a loss, like he’s trying to get away from you. You know you’re a guest in his space, so you try to respect the way he wants to be alone for a while. He definitely gives off loner vibes.

You look around and find a collection of vinyl records, and smaller collection of books on a shelf next to the fireplace. You find Gulliver’s Travels, Dune, The Odyssey, The Wizard of Oz—books you didn’t think a guy like Dean would be into.

You take up The Wizard of Oz, reclaim your spot on the chaise, and start reading.

That night, your dreams are plagued by the crunch of dead leaves, your father shouting at you to run, and to keep running.

The coarse roar of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short.

You wake with a start, your body both cold and flush at the same time.

Dean is there once again. It confuses you at first, but then it all returns to you in a rush—the where and the why you’re here, once again with the alpha standing over you in concern. He grasps your shoulder and asks if you’re all right. Your breathing is too erratic for you to answer him, your eyes too wide, your body trembling.

Had you been making noise in your sleep? You blush in embarrassment at the thought. You also feel bad for waking him, and all those things get trapped in your throat.

Seeing that you’re most definitely not fine, he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezes your arm, and reminds you.

“It’s okay. You’re safe here,” he tells you. His tone is deep and even, reassuring.

You meet his steady gaze and manage to nod, trying to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” you say, with a shaky nod. He gives you a measuring look, both a question and a confirmation. You give it to him with a firmer nod. “Thanks, I…I’m sorry I woke you up.”

He exhales through his nose, accepting. “‘S all right. Don’t worry about it.”

You feel the loss of his touch when his hand eventually slip away from your shoulder. As soon as he came into your room, he’s gone.

Dean leaves swiftly, trying to brush off how the scent of your fear had tugged sharply at his gut even in his sleep. It not only woke him up, but compelled him to kick his blankets off and get out of bed to go to you.

You were having a nightmare, reliving your fall, if he had to guess. You came out of it pretty quick when he carefully grabbed your shoulder. Every instinct in his body told him to gather you into his arms and cover you with his own scent and protective embrace to calm you down.

Through sheer willpower, he managed to ignore every single one of those instincts.

Two days pass, in which you and Dean say very little to one another, besides when he asks you what you want to eat, and how you’re feeling. The alpha seems genuine, but guarded any time you ask him about him; anything that’ll give you a clue into who this guy is, and why he’s here.

You try again to strike up some kind of conversation over dinner one night.

“Do you live here year-round?” you ask, around a mouthful of burger that’s absolutely delicious. He wasn’t lying when he claimed to be a good cook. He even made the fries himself.

“No,” he replies. “No Netflix, no internet? Think I’d die of boredom. I just come up here to uh…take a beat, I guess.”

You smile. “I don’t blame you. Sometimes you just need a break,” you say, even though your tone is heavier than you meant it to be. Your gaze, a bit distant in that moment, sharpens and focuses back on Dean. “Where are you from, then?”

“Kansas,” he offers.

“Oh really?” You brighten with that scrap of information. “My older sister lives in Topeka. She moved there for a job, initially, but then she met her guy. He’s some kind of day trader. Which is just code for sits on his ass playing Call of Duty while she busts hers.”

Dean huffs, then crams more burger into his mouth. He hasn’t been giving you a lot to go on while you two have been talking. Unfortunately, you have the tendency to ramble and fill the silence before it becomes even more stifled.

“She works at a bank. Smart, driven, always knows what she wants. Meanwhile, I’ve had about seven jobs in the last three years, none of which were even remotely related to my almost useless degree in Communications.”

“Yeah, doubt you need a degree in communicating,” Dean remarks, popping another fry into his mouth.

You purse your lips at him, but the glint of teasing in his eyes makes you fight not to smile.

“All right, smart guy. So, what about you?” you ask.

Predictably, the man’s walls firm back up. “What about me?”

“Well…why’re you up here alone? Do you have family?” you ask.

Dean quirks a half smile. “I’ve got a brother.”

“Okay. Younger, I’m guessing?”

He tilts his head at you, a bit amused at your guess. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I can’t imagine you with a brother who’s older than you.”

His lips twitch. “You callin’ me old, sweetheart?”

You begin to blush with embarrassment. But also, sweetheart?

You shake your head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just mean like…”

Dean saves you with the return of his smile.

“Yeah, he’s younger,” he says. “But he’s the one with the quasi-wife and the apple pie life.”

“Quasi-wife?”

“They’re mated. Just haven’t gotten around to the whole getting hitched thing,” he explains. “But they’re happy. Dean Jr.’s growing up fast, already running full speed into glass doors.”

His smile is genuine when he talks about his brother, just tinged with a bit of melancholy, you think.

“Dean Jr.?” you ask in amusement. Dean Sr. laughs a little, and you enjoy the sound, the way it lightens up his face and pulls at the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, can’t say I wasn’t surprised myself to get that honor, but…hey, it works for the kid. He’s got my chin,” he remarks.

He digs into his pocket to show you a picture from his cell phone. Even though it doesn’t have service, you can still view the many pictures of the adorable infant in his camera roll, courtesy of Sam and his mate, Eileen. You coo at the chubby cheeks, the bright little eyes, and the swirled tuft of dark hair on his head.

“Where do they live?” you ask.

“Out west, a stone’s throw from the City of Angels.” Dean’s smile dims. “He just had to go back to California.”

“What’s wrong with California?” you ask.

“It’s full of pretentious douchebags, that’s what,” he says, his voice a dry whip. “Waxed up to the fucking eyeballs, smelling like Botox, Adderall, and sweaty desperation.”

You splutter laughing so bad that your diet coke escapes you in a spit take. It partially goes up into your nose, burning, stinging your eyes, but it’s made worse by the way Dean waves a hand up incredulously. You’ve just gotten half his sleeve wet.

He meets your gaze, and you can’t help but laugh even harder.

“Wow,” he says.

“God, I’m sorry,” you say, still giggling. You get up, hobble over to the kitchen counter, and rip off a paper towel to try and pat his arm dry. He takes it from you and helps you back into your seat.

“I got it, Spit Take. Just finish your food,” he says, if with a dancing gleam in his eyes.

From then on, it becomes easier for you to pull the alpha into conversation. Besides reading, napping, and staring out the window while it snows, you don’t have much by way of entertainment. Not to mention the pain of trying to get around without crutches, as it also jostles your ribs. Dean often has to help you from one room to another, which of course, you get embarrassed by.

“I’m sorry!” you yelp, when he saves you from another crash landing in the hallway. You’re fresh out of a shower, and it had taken you twenty minutes just to figure out how to wash your hair on one leg, let alone dry yourself off and get your shirt and borrowed sweatpants on. The main problem in getting back to your room happened to be the pants themselves. Their length and bagginess made you slip.

At least Dean’s learned to ignore your apologies. He now holds you by the waist, having pulled you against his chest on reflex. With furrowed brows, he notices your pained hiss when you grab onto his arms for balance.

“You okay?” he asks with a note of alarm.

“Ribs,” you gasp. They’re throbbing sharply with his hold, especially after being rattled by the near fall.

He immediately adjusts his hold lower, holding your arm and hip to support you. His hands are strong, but gentle. The warmth and pressure of his touch rattles you more than almost falling into a heap. Cliché as it might be, your heart is beating faster, what seems like in and out of rhythm. A feeling you can’t name stirs and tugs at your lower belly when you hazard looking up into his eyes. They’re a nice shade of green, like a forest floor in the spring.

“You just go ass over tea kettle at any moment, huh?” he quips, his lips tugging upward. “Come on. Where were you headed?”

“To my room, wise guy,” you say wryly, even as your blush heats your face and neck. “But this is a great taxi service.”

He snorts. “Yeah, call it the Winchestermobile.”

“Winchester. That your last name? Like the rifle?” you ask, while he helps you carefully down the hall. He nods in confirmation.

“That’s interesting. You don’t meet many Winchesters,” you remark.

“Yeah, well, ain’t that many left,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, easing you down onto the edge of the bed. His hands go to his hips as he scrutinizes your form for further injury. “You good? I was about to get cracking on some lunch.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s on the menu?”

“Nothing fancy. I’m thinking grilled cheese. Maybe some tomato soup, assuming I can find a can in the pantry,” he says.

“Honestly, that sounds awesome,” you say. “Haven’t had a grilled since…God, probably since I was a kid.”

At that, Dean smiles. “Well, I happen to make an awesome one. No less than three kinds of cheese.”

“If they’re as good as your burgers, then I don’t doubt it,” you reply. He seems pleased at that, and maybe a little bashful as his gaze falls away.

Cute, you think. Your smile grows.

“All right, well, stay tuned,” he says. He winks, tossing you a “gun for hand” gesture that makes you laugh. Dean wears a rugged exterior as easily as his winter jacket, but he’s also kind of a dork.

After lunch (delicious, as you predicted), you take the afternoon just to sort through Dean’s records and alphabetize them for him. You hunker down on the floor in front of the shelf, close to the record player.

“I don’t need all that. I know where all my stuff is…more or less,” he says, with a lazy wave of the beer he has in hand.

“Oh really?” you raise a brow. “Okay, let’s test that theory. Where’s Boston.”

“Right next to the White Album, there on the left.”

Sure enough, you find Boston, as well as the White Album by the Beatles.

“Oh my God, you actually have the White Album?” You open up the double-sided case in excitement to read the list of songs printed on the inside. “This thing is so expensive.”

“Beatles fan, huh?” Dean says as he takes a seat on the couch. You turn your smile on him, and he stills in his seat.

“Uh, yeah. Who isn’t?” you say.

Dean shrugs with a smile of his own. “Put it on if you want.”

You bounce a little with excitement before you figure out how to turn on his record player. You put the vinyl album on Side B, moving the needle until you find “Blackbird.”

“Of course,” Dean says, slightly teasing. You turn to him with crunched brows.

“What? ‘Blackbird’s’ a classic.”

“Eh. Everyone likes ‘Blackbird.’”

“That’s what a classic means,” you argue.

“More like a mainstream copout,” he says. You think it’s just to needle you, but you still purse your lips.

“Fine, Mr. Music Snob. Then what’s your favorite?”

“On the White Album?”

“Any Beatles song.”

“‘Hey, Jude,’” he says, after a moment. There’s some kind of weight in his eyes, a note of melancholy. You don’t miss it, even though you don’t know why it’s there.

“Everyone likes ‘Hey, Jude,’” you quip, trying to lighten him.

He smiles a little. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

Finally, the snowstorm breaks. Dean ventures outside and brings you back a long, sturdy stick to lean your weight on when you want to move around, though he claims he’s working on a better solution. Now that the snow has let up, he’ll be able to go out to the shed and do some work.

Whatever that means, you think.

You watch him from the living room when he goes outside to chop some more firewood.

He should really wear a hat. His brown hair is getting dusted white with snow flurries as he continues to swing down the ax. You notice the power in his tall frame, even covered by layers of his jacket, pants, and boots. You almost feel each chop of the wood resonate in your chest.

Heat rises in your cheeks when he looks up, as if he senses he’s being watched. You bow your head and pretend to read your book.

His boots continue to crunch in the snow as he makes trips back and forth from the surrounding forest. Aside from the firewood, he brings back a few long, thinner logs that he takes to the shed. Soon you begin to hear the steady back-and-forth cutting of a saw. You wish you could go out there and take a look, but you can’t even get around the house that easily, let alone venture outside.

Your curiosity about this man knows no bounds, and you decide to use the walking stick he found for you in the meantime to get around without putting pressure on your injured ankle. You know it’s wrong, but you end up traversing the long, dark hallway, pushing open the door to the right, and venturing into Dean’s room.

It smells like him, earthy and tinged with smoke. His scent is seeped into every part of it—the bed, the dresser and nightstands, the dark blue bedsheets, the desk and chair, and even the drapes. It makes you almost lightheaded at the pleasurable feeling of it washing over you.

A shudder suddenly runs down your spine and tugs at your core in arousal. With a sharp intake of breath, you have to shift on your feet, pressing your legs together against the slick already forming down below.

You’re shocked and embarrassed at first. You aim to bolt out of his room, but you stop short in the doorway as it dawns on you.

Your sister is a beta, and so is her husband. She’s never completely understood you as an omega. She never understood your parents either, or the bond they had. She always scoffed at the idea of “true mates.”

Soulmates. It was fantasy and myth, the stuff of cheesy Harlequin novels.

Growing up, you’d agreed with her, even though a part of you deep down always protested. It wanted to tell her not to open her mouth about something she knew nothing about, and would never know.

The day you met Dean, you knew she was wrong.

Your more logical mind tries again to reassert itself though. You remind yourself that you barely know anything about this man, no matter how attractive, kind, funny, enigmatic…

And yet, you can’t shake that part of you that doesn’t rest until you see his face in the morning; until you make him coffee and eat breakfast together, and take any opportunity to pull more threads from him. It’s more than passing attraction. It’s more than just being stuck together in this cabin, unable to escape each other. You know, because the feeling scares you, and it electrifies your blood at the same time.

All these thoughts go through your mind when you turn back around. Slowly, you continue to look around his room, your whole body tingling. The room is neat, more or less, with everything in its proper place. It’s pretty bare though, décor wise. There’s a desk with a few scattered books and a journal sandwiched in between. A smile of surprise forms across your face.

No. Don’t tell me this guy is Mr. Dear Diary? you think in amusement. Though you wonder if it’s another way he passes his time here, especially when he’s holed up in his room.

You know you shouldn’t be snooping, let alone contemplating what you’re about to do…but you can’t help yourself. Biting your lip, you slide out the journal and begin to flip through it.

You frown at the strange drawings and odd entries—dates, narratives, scraps of information on different types of mythological creatures, and even more strange, on how to kill them.

What the hell is this?

That’s when you hear the front door swing open. You bolt from his room as quick as you can, not realizing you took the journal with you in your haste. You stuff it up your sweater and pretend like you’ve just come out of the bathroom on the way back to your room. There you slide the journal under your pillow. You jump when Dean knocks on your door.

“Hey,” he greets.

The jolting pains your ribs, and your hand goes to your left side in a hiss.

“You okay?” he asks, brows furrowing in concern. He takes a step into your room, but you turn to him with a nod and a placating hand.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You just scared me,” you say, with a bit of nervous laughter.

He gives a half smile. “Sorry. Just come ‘ere a sec. I wanna show you something.”

He reaches out a hand to help guide you to the living room.

There he presents you with two rudimentary crutches. Your eyes widen as your free hand passes over the smooth chestnut color of the wood. Dean keeps a light hold on your elbow, just in case.

“You made these?” you ask.

“Yeah, just a bit of woodworking. Picked it up over the last couple of years,” he says.

He’s downplaying it, but you’re nothing short of marveling. You set aside the walking stick in favor of picking up the crutches, and they’re even the right size to position them under your arms.

“Now you don’t have to hobble around like Long John Silver,” Dean quips. You meet the sight of his grin with a raised brow, but you soon begin to smile. When you get close enough to him, you lean the crutches against the couch and give him a warm hug, resting your head on his chest.

“Thank you,” you say. It’s something he was wholly unprepared for, but he hugs you back with a chuckle.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

Just then, he tries not to inhale your scent. He tries not to focus on the feeling of your body pressed soft and warm against his. You fit just right.

After a beat, you have mercy on him and pull away. You take your crutches back up and continue to walk around the living room experimentally.

“You think I’d be okay trying to go outside?” you ask on your way to the door. Dean tenses.

“Uh, I don’t think—”

But you’re already halfway out the door. He shakes his head and follows you with swift strides. He watches you step out carefully onto the porch like a baby deer. He cleared the snow this morning from the deck and the steps, but he’s more concerned when he sees you considering how you might step out onto the snow.

“Stay on the porch, all right, Bambi,” he warns. “You’re not wearing snow boots and it’s still pretty deep. Not to mention, I’ve been keeping an eye out for a bear that wandered through here last week—”

You turn to look at him over your shoulder in amusement.

“Okay, Alpha. Calm down,” you say playfully. “I’m not gonna go ass over tea kettle.”

His brow twitches as he frowns. Alpha. He fights not to show his reaction to the way you said it; it calls to his baser instincts, almost stirring a rumble in his chest.

Cheeky little omega.

You keep to the porch, but regardless, you’re happy. You don’t even mind the cold. You see your breath on the air, and you tip your head back, closing your eyes with a smile as the sunshine warms your face. You inhale through your nose and let it out slowly in contentment.

“It’s a good day, Dean,” you say quietly.

You don’t realize that he’s watching you with a more reserved smile on his face. When he realizes it, he shakes his head at himself. He’s only been here a week with you, and it’ll probably take a couple more for your ankle to heal up well enough for you to walk again, let alone get down the mountain.

He doesn’t want to leave you alone up here, so he’ll have to somehow keep fending off your probing questions into his past and personal life. There's a lifetime of blood, nightmares, and death that he just can't let you see behind his eyes.

Hell, he's been trying to shove it all down for the past year—in booze and odd jobs and trips to nowhere, always coming back to an empty bunker. He still wonders how Sam's managed to do it, to move on, and build a new life for himself.

If Dean's honest (and he's not), he feels a bit like this cabin; old, falling apart, and forgotten.

But he’ll have to keep taking in your brightness and warmth, continue arguing with you about music and other inane shit, and pretend that every small touch of yours doesn’t ignite his skin. That it doesn’t make him have to beat down every instinct he has to pull you into his body and blanket you with his scent, ravage you, claim you, and make you his.

He never thought this would happen to him. He never thought someone like you was out there…for someone like him.

He knows it though, deep in his gut. You’re meant for him. You’re meant to be his mate.

Which means he’s already screwed.

AN: And we're off! Special thanks again to Michelle (@luci-in-trenchcoats) for being my sounding board when I was first writing this series. Let me know what you think of Part 1! 💜

Next Time:

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed…

When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

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won4kiss · 6 hours ago

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﹙ 🎬 ﹚ ────FOREVER SOUNDS PERFECT.

(🐚) ── 𝓛EE HEESEUNG﹙희승﹚ ꒰ 𝓰. oneshot ៸ fluff ៸ established relationship ୨୧ㅤㅤ WARNiNGS : not proofread ៸ kissing ៸ petnames ៸ ❞ fiance! 𝓁ee heeseung x 𝑓! reader ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ꒰ WC : 0.6K ꒱ SYPNOSiS 𐙚 in the late hours of the night, you and heeseung indulge in a late night talk about your soon to be married future together .ᐟ ── LiBRARY

THE APARTMENT WAS SILENT WITH YOUR THOUGHTS.

the world outside could be heard slightly from the open windows, but now, wrapped in lee heeseung’s arms, everything feels still and perfect.

he’s lying on his back, and you’re curled against his chest, your legs tangled like it’s second nature. his fingers play gently with yours, occasionally spinning the engagement ring on your finger like he still can’t believe it’s there.

“you’re thinking about something, aren’t you?” you say, tilting your head up to catch his gaze.

his lips twitch into a small grin, warm and familiar. “maybe.”

you raise an eyebrow, shifting slightly to lift yourself on your elbow. “okay mr. nonchalant, spill.” ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖶!

heeseung sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the pillow with a thud. “i was just thinking about our wedding.”

your feel your heart skip a beat, but you play it cool. “oh? what about it?”

he taps his chin as if he’s deep in thought. “i’m still debating if i should cry when i see you walking down the aisle or just faint on the spot. both feel very in character for me.”

you giggle at his words, hitting his chest lightly. “be serious, hee!”

“i am serious,” he insists, catching your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to your palm. “you’re going to look so beautiful. i’m probably gonna cry a little… just so you know.”

you roll your eyes affectionately, your cheeks pink and insides warm. “good. then i’ll cry too, and we’ll be a mess together.”

heeseung grins and tugs you down so you’re lying on his chest again—his arms wrap securely around you, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

“i was also thinking about our first dance.”

“really?”

“yeah.” his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. “i don’t know what song we’ll pick, but i know i’m not letting you go, even when the song’s over. we’ll probably have to be dragged off the dance floor.”

you can’t help but smile at the image forming in your imagination. “god—you’re such a sap.”

“for you? always.” he presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering on your skin.

“and then after the wedding… we’ll go somewhere far away for our honeymoon. somewhere with a beach, maybe. just us, no schedules, just sleeping in, exploring, eating too much good food.”

“sold,” you mumble, snuggling closer into his embrace if possible. “but you know the best part?”

“what?”

“coming home.” you trace small circles on his chest, where his heartbeat is steady and comforting.

“starting our life together. making breakfast on the weekends, falling asleep on the couch watching dumb movies, annoying you until you can’t take it anymore.”

heeseung chuckles, tilting your chin up so you’re nose to nose. “i love the sound of that.”

you grin. “even the annoying you part?”

“especially that part.” his voice softens, feeling the seriousness despite the teasing. “i want all of it. every boring, silly, annoying little moment.”

you lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. he smiles into it, chasing after you when you pull back like he’s not done yet.

“we’re gonna have the best life,” he says so surely, eyes sparkling. “even if we burn dinner or lose our keys or—i don’t know, accidentally adopt five dogs someday.”

“accidentally?” you laugh.

he laughs too, tipping his head back against the pillow. “intentionally. whatever you desire, baby. as long as it’s with you.”

you smile, settling back into his arms, feeling so impossibly safe and loved. “forever sounds pretty nice.”

heeseung hums contentedly, his lips brushing your temple. “forever sounds perfect.”

NOTE. i love heeseung so much:( i think this will be my second to last fic of 2024!! my birthdays on tuesday that’s the only thing keeping me going rn ☹️ BUT HAIR APPOINTMENT ON THE 30TH GUESS WHOS GOING BLONDE🔥🔥🔥

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paigesbasketball · 1 day ago

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Shadow the Hedgehog Headcannons

Shadow the hedgehog x reader Warnings: None Notes: just shadow if he were being a tease to his significant other (a little sum cause the movie was dropped)

Sarcastic Remarks: Shadow loves to make sarcastic comments, often poking fun at your habits or quirks. He'll tell you things like, "Guess I’ll have to show you how it's done, again," whenever you try to do something he thinks you can’t handle.

Mocking Your Speed: Since he’s known for being incredibly fast, Shadow might tease you about not being able to keep up. "Hurry up, unless you're planning on slowing me down," he’ll smirk, knowing full well you’ll catch up in your own way.

Feigning Ignorance: Shadow loves pretending he doesn’t know something when he clearly does, just to get a rise out of you. If you ask him for help with something, he might say, “I’m not your tutor,” then end up showing you anyway.

The ‘Unexpected Compliment’: He’ll drop a compliment in the most unexpected way, making it seem like he’s trying to be rude at first. "You actually look halfway decent today. Guess it’s the lighting," he'll say with a smirk, knowing you’ll blush or respond defensively.

Teasing Physical Touch: He may deliberately brush up against you or playfully nudge you when you're not expecting it. Sometimes, it’s just to mess with you, and other times, it’s to see how you'll react to the sudden closeness.

Over-the-Top Drama: Shadow might act overly dramatic when you do something he finds amusing. "Oh, sure, that’s how you’re going to solve it? Classic,” he’ll say with exaggerated disbelief, even if it’s a simple solution. It’s all in good fun to see your reaction.

Competitive Tease: In friendly competitions or games, Shadow will never let you forget who’s winning. “Not bad, but I am the ultimate,” he’ll taunt, grinning whenever you get even a tiny bit close to beating him.

Mocking Your ‘Flustered’ Moments: If you get flustered or embarrassed, Shadow loves to notice and point it out with a sly grin. “Did I say something that made you blush? How cute,” he’ll tease, not letting you live it down for a while.

"I’m Not Interested" (But He Totally Is): Shadow will act uninterested when you flirt or compliment him, saying things like, “Stop wasting your time,” but his small smirk or subtle eye contact will tell you otherwise, making you wonder if he’s just playing hard to get.

Unbothered Smirks: Whenever you try to challenge him or show off, he’ll give you that signature smirk and say, “Is that all you’ve got?” His teasing tone makes it sound like a challenge, even if he knows he’s got it all under control.

Tease and Walk Away: Shadow is notorious for saying something teasing and then walking away before you can respond. He loves leaving you with no time to react, knowing you’ll be caught up thinking about what he said.

Messing with Your Routine: If he sees you’re in the middle of something important, Shadow might deliberately distract you with a harmless comment or playful taunt, just to see how easily you can lose focus.

"You Could Use Some Help": If you’re struggling with something, Shadow will occasionally offer his help in a teasing way. “You could use a lot of help,” he’ll say, just to make you roll your eyes before he steps in to assist.

Becoming More Touchy: After spending more time together and getting to know you, Shadow begins to show more affection in a subtle, touchy way. He may rest a hand on your shoulder or casually wrap an arm around your waist when you're close. It's his way of expressing how much he's grown to care for you, but in typical Shadow fashion, he’s still a little reserved about it. These moments are rare, but they show his soft side emerging as he grows more comfortable with you.

So... i fear after watching the movie I have fallen a little for shadow, like i have been with the fandom for along time since i have played that games as a child but wheeeewwww movie shadow did sum to me or maybe it was the final push...

-Caty writes

#shadow the hedgehog #catytuesdays #shadow x reader #shadow #sonic the hedgehog #sonic 3

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0omillo0 · 16 hours ago

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hi hi, i’ve been watching older skz yt videos and had the thought of being jisung’s girlfriend but also being apart of the skz film crew so being there for every single mv shoot, skzcode, etc. and jisung being so excited and waving cutely towards you while you’re behind the camera!

(i thought the idea was cute and i wanted to share but i literally have no one to share my skz thoughts with outside of socials and you’re the only page i’ve shared my ideas with so far although i’m anon, i’ve requested a couple of the angst han jisung stuff that you’ve written and your writing makes my day, i hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself riri 🥹🤍)

Behind the Camera, In His Heart

Han Jisung x Reader ; fluff

As a part of Stray Kids’ film crew, your job was to capture the group in their element. Whether it was filming chaotic SKZ-Code episodes or sleek music videos, you were always behind the camera, steadying shots, barking instructions, or adjusting lighting. But there was one particular member who made it increasingly hard to stay professional.

Han Jisung.

Your boyfriend.

The love of your life… and also the biggest distraction on set.

“Y/N!”

Speak of the devil. You glanced up from your camera settings to see Jisung waving at you wildly from across the set. Dressed in his MV outfit and absolutely killing it, he grinned ear-to-ear and waved both hands in a frenzy like he hadn’t just seen you fifteen minutes ago.

“Focus, Han!” Minho barked, smacking Jisung on the arm. “We’re not filming Y/N-Code. Stick to the choreography.”

Jisung pouted dramatically, tossing a betrayed look at Minho before giving you one last enthusiastic wave.

“Hi, jagi!”

From behind you, Seungmin snorted. “He’s like a golden retriever who saw their owner.”

“I think golden retrievers have more chill,” Hyunjin quipped as he adjusted his hair in the monitor reflection.

“You guys are just jealous!” Jisung shot back, folding his arms but still sneaking little glances in your direction.

“Yeah,” Chan added, rubbing his temples. “Jealous of how much Y/N has to endure that.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Being around Stray Kids day in and day out meant you were no stranger to their relentless teasing, but Jisung always made sure it was worth it.

“Jisung,” you called, leaning just slightly around the camera. “Focus! You’re holding everyone up.”

“I am focused,” he insisted, running his hands through his hair to look extra dashing. “I’m focusing on you!”

“Boo!” came the collective groan from the members.

Chan clapped his hands. “Alright, Jisung’s flirting session is over. Let’s run it again before I lose my mind.”

Jisung gave you a sheepish shrug before getting into formation with the others. But, as the music started and they dove into their choreography, he still managed to sneak little glances at you every chance he got.

Later, during a quick break, you were crouched behind the camera reviewing the footage when Jisung plopped down beside you, completely ignoring his makeup artist’s protests to touch up his hair.

“So, how did I do?” he asked, voice low and teasing as he nudged your shoulder.

“Pretty good,” you replied, keeping your eyes on the screen. “But you kept looking at the camera.”

He smirked. “I wasn’t looking at the camera.”

“Yah!” You shoved his arm, and he burst out laughing, the sound so infectious that even the other members glanced over with amused looks.

“You guys are disgusting,” Changbin groaned, tossing his water bottle at Jisung, who caught it with ease.

“Don’t be mad just because I’m in love!” Jisung shot back, leaning closer to you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“That’s it,” Minho said, deadpan. “Y/N, I’m banning you from set.”

“Hey!” Jisung protested immediately, clutching onto your arm like a lifeline. “You can’t do that! Y/N is my muse!”

Jeongin’s head peeked out from behind the snack table. “You’re only saying that because she edits out your embarrassing moments.”

You grinned at that, tilting your head toward Jisung. “Is that true?”

Jisung straightened up and shook his head frantically. “No! I mean—yes—but no! I mean—”

The rest of the crew burst out laughing, and Jisung flushed as red as his stage outfit, burying his face in his hands.

Despite the teasing and chaos, being on set with him was your favorite thing in the world. Because behind every take, every chaotic SKZ-Code challenge, and every beautifully shot music video, Jisung always made sure you knew how much you meant to him—whether it was through over-the-top waves, secret smiles, or soft words whispered when no one else was watching.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

taglist: @intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids x y/n #han jisung #han jisung x reader #han x reader #skz fluff #han jisung fluff #han fluff #han x you #han x y/n #han jisung comfort #han stray kids #stray kids imagines

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helen-lucilfer · 15 hours ago

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some Chrollo things i found/realized on my rewatch + reread of hxh

- he has REALLY bad posture. in the PT base during yorknew, when Chrollo is reading a book, he is literally hunched over and his back is at like a 45 degree angle🥺

- he’s very smug and cocky. after his fight against Zeno and Silva, he asks with a smirk to Zeno “if we were in a fight, who would win, you or me?” and chuckles knowingly when Zeno replies. during Chrollo vs Hisoka, Chrollo says that he is “100% sure that i am going to win”

- his personality switches depending on who he’s with. with the troupe, he’s logical and stoic—never losing his temper. when he’s with Hisoka, he’s much more relaxed and friendly + smiles much more often. when he’s with someone older, he’s respectful.

- he doesn’t seem to mind celebrations/parties. he’s seen drinking with the troupe in a manga panel after the auction.

- he seems very self aware of his handsome appearance, as he lured Neon in + most of the abilities in his book are from women.

- in terms of physical strength, Chrollo is 7th in the Troupe —above Bonolenov, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Pakunoda, Shizuku, and Kortopi, making him MUCH MUCH MUCH stronger than even superhumans such as Gon and Killua. (I love this fact for some reason)

- he had many similarities to Gon and Kurapika as a kid. (read Ch. 395-397, which is the Troupe backstory. it has a lot of cute baby Troupe member scenes🥺)

- he has a habit of covering his mouth with his hand whenever he is thinking deeply about something or connecting the lines.

- he knows a shocking amount about the Kakin Empire (in the manga), even more so than some of the Princes of the Kakin Empire.

- he seems to have a habit of smirking whenever something is going according to plan or when something went according to plan. he also just seems to enjoy smirking in general.

- his favorite color seems to be purple due to much of his outfits being some sort of variation of purple.

- in official arts + mobage cards, he seems to have dark circles under his eyes. in the yorknew city arc, he is also the only troupe member who didn’t sleep during the entire arc, meaning that he seems to have some sort of insomnia.

- in mobage cards, Chrollo seems to have a habit of fidgeting with his clothes. (pulling off his tie during the Christmas mobage card, playing with his hat, etc,.)

- he is very athletic, considering how at the end of yorknew city when he was left nen-less on those plateaus, he managed to climb down and find shelter all by himself.

- he is also very rich, since on average, every Zoldyck assassination costs around 1 billion—Chrollo managed to afford to assassinate the 10 Dons, meaning 10 billion Jenny.

- Chrollo doesn’t seem to care whenever someone is being disrespectful towards him or the troupe.

- Chrollo seems to have a particular fondness for suits, as he is often seen wearing a suit in official arts

- Chrollo often wears clothing that covers much of his body

- Chrollo seems to have the traditional values of a chivalrous man, meaning that he respects women quite a lot and makes sures to keep them safe. Chrollo made sure to catch Neon in the most respectful way when she “fell” (he literally could have just grabbed her by the arm and it would have been fine), he made sure to keep Pakunoda + Machi + Shizuku in the same team during yorknew (there were no men in their team), and during the Chrollo vs Hisoka battle, none of the female spectators (or even the commentator) were harmed.

———

AUGHHHHHH CHROLLO ILYSM PLEASE LIVE UNTIL THE END OF THE SERIES😭🥺😫❤️CHROLLOOOO UR MY BBY AND ILYSMMMMM😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️😫😫😫💕💕💕

#hunter x hunter #hxh #chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #hxh chrollo #hxh hcs #hxh x reader #chrollo hcs #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo lucifer x reader #yandere chrollo #chrollo smut #chrollo x y/n #chrollo x reader #chrollo x you

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xxgoldie · 3 days ago

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MY LOVELYYYY!!!! CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!! 100 FOLLOWERS?? im so proud of you!!! gosh 🥹🥹

may i request mammon with S??? i know hes one to show off his most coveted and prized possessions :3

HERES TO MANY MORE FOLLOWERS MY DEAR!!!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 kisses 4 my goldie 🥹

THANK U LOVEY !!!! and thank you for the excuse to talk about mammon hehehe I love him your honour

main event page - event masterlist

S: Show-off - do they like to show off to their s/o?

Mammon is a show-off to his Core. He tries to act subtle about it, like he's just naturally so cool and he doesn't even need to try, of course you're smitten! But not-so-secretly, he lives off of your praise, he basically glows at every compliment, even if it's given through giggles at his antics. He'd definitely challenge his brothers and random demons to arm wrestles when you're around, especially if you've shown attraction to his strength/arms (n how could u not). If he loses (which he does sometimes, its becoming his mission to beat Beel), pls comfort him n tell him that naturally he must have let them win, the Great Mammon isn't just strong but also benevolent (n u got a nice look at his arms either way), it'll cheer him right up. In the end, what he really craves is reassurance and your eyes on him.

He'll also show you off constantly. He will always refer to you as his human + he loves public dates and PDA so he can brag to the whole Devildom how amazing you are and that you're His. He'll deny it if anyone brings it up, but if you listen to his flustered grumbling, he definitely said something about how it's normal to want to flaunt his treasure. Also, it comes with the territory of dating the Avatar of Greed, but he loves making sure everyone knows you're spoken for. He is the second born, you could count on one hand the amount of demons for whom it wouldn't be a death wish to mess with something he cares about, but he likes seeing when they wish they could. Its very much a "you can look, but don't even try to get close" dynamic.

(side note, he gets so flustered and sappy when you're the one showing him off. but I fear I am rambling already)

#haven't yapped about obey me in ages hehehe i love my silly guy so much #goldie's events: 100 ♡#goldie's besties ♡#obey me mammon #mammon x reader #om mammon #obey me mammon x reader #om mammon x reader #obey me x reader #om x reader #x reader #headcanons #fluff alphabet #fluff headcanons

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glamourscat · 14 hours ago

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I LOVE UR TIM FICS SM HES LITERALLY MY BABY I LOVE HEARING PPL TALK ABT HIM MORE‼️‼️

Anyway I was wondering if I could request a fic of reader teasing/flirting with Tim to see him blush and maybe throw in some smooches stolen

TY IF U CHOOSE TO WRITE THIS 🙏🙏

Tim, are you blushing? | tim drake x reader

a/n: sorry for the wait, i hope you like this <3

For someone so brilliant, so capable of leading teams and solving impossible cases, Tim turned into an adorable mess when flustered.

And you? Well, you'd made it your personal mission to see that blush as often as possible. Because after all, if a loophole is present, why not take advantage of it?

"Hey, pretty boy," you called out, leaning against the doorframe of the Batcave's computer station. Tim was hunched over the keyboard, analyzing some ridiculously complex case. Typical.

He hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up. So absorbed into his work he did not even hear you properly.

You grinned, skipping over to where he was sitting. "You know, for someone with such amazing detective skills, you're pretty oblivious."

That got his attention. "What do you mean?"

"Well," you draped yourself over the back of his chair, your breath tickling his ear, "you haven't noticed I've been wearing your hoodie all day."

Tim's typing stuttered to a halt. He turned slowly, those blue eyes widening as he finally noticed his favorite hoodie draped over your frame. His scent, the mix of tea, lavender and talk is so strong and most of all, it all over you.

"I- when did you-" A pink tint crept up his neck.

"This morning. After you left for patrol" You hummed, moving to sit besides him. "It's super comfy. I might keep it."

"That's- I mean-" He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "You can't just steal my clothes."

"Why not? Do I not look good in it?," you grinned, showing off your figure teasingly. And there it was. That full-blown blush you'd been aiming for. "Besides, you love seeing me in your clothes. Don't even try to deny it."

Tim ran a hand through his messy black hair, a nervous habit you know too well by now. "You're– i.. Well, damn it" he stutters flustered as he bites his lower lip.

His blue eyes looking at yours intensly, his face illuminated thanks to the batcave computer. And you did not miss how his eyes darted from your face to your lips. Well… who are you lose an opportunity, right? You lean over and quickly steal a peck.

A rather embarrassing yet endearing quiet moan leaves his lips at the unexpected yet welcome contact.

“You did not just..” he looks at you with his mouth slightly apart like a fish.

You reached out, gently brushing his bangs from his eyes. "Aw, so cute." it was not meant to come accross in a mocking way, but objectively speaking, you were feeling so damn cocky right now.

Your comment is what makes him react though. In a few seconds he stood up, his hands on your waist squeezing, as his forehead rests against yours. So close, damn he is so hot. Your heart did a little flip at the sudden proximity.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?"

"I know I am."

"Always teasing me," he murmured, leaning somehow even closer. "Always trying to make me blush."

"Can you blame me? You're adorable when you're flustered. I just wanna kiss you senseless."

His eyes flickered to your lips. "Maybe I should return the favor."

Before you could come up with a witty response, he was the one to closed the distance this time, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet, soft kiss. It was your turn to be surprised, melting into him as one of his hands moved to cup your cheek.

When he pulled back, there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "Now who's blushing?"

You laugh quietly. "Always needing to have the last word hmm?" Your hands go on his hips.

You two spent the rest of your afternoon kissing. Smiling maybe too much for it to be perfect, but somehow that made it even better. And if anyone noticed that Tim's productivity took a serious hit that afternoon, or the fact that he looked like he ran a marathon-- with his messy hair, panting breath, red cheeks and puffy lips-- well, nobody pointed it out.

#tim drake x reader #this is so soft i'm dying #i need him #tim drake needs more kisses #tim drake #tim drake x you #tim drake x fem!reader #tim drake x male reader #tim drake x gn!reader #tim drake fanfiction #tim drake fluff #tim drake fic #red robin x reader #red robin fanfiction #red robin dc #timothy drake #batfam fanfic #fluff #batfamily fanfiction

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arandomao3user · 2 days ago

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As an Ao3 author, I love giving headcanons that'd probably anger a certain side of the Batman fandom, but I personally don't care because it makes great angst and, again, I'm an Ao3 author and chronically ill!

First up! Dick Grayson, I like the idea of him having ADHD, of course, BUT... joint hypermobility syndrome.

(Joint Hypermobility Syndrome: Joint hypermobility syndrome is a connective tissue disorder. Thick bands of tissue (ligaments) hold your joints together and keep them from moving too much or too far out of range. In people with joint hypermobility syndrome, those ligaments are loose or weak. If you have joints that are more flexible than normal and it causes you pain, you may have joint hypermobility syndrome.)

Chronic pain fits him, don't ask, because as the eldest child with chronic pain and hypermobiltiy syndrome, trust, he has that look in his eye that he's been walking on swollen knees for the past twelve hours, had three mental breakdowns, and is still pushing through because SOMEBODY has to deal with this bull.

That's also the reason he wears freakin' spandex-- only, it's for compression! He wears compression items to help with swelling and pain TRUST, and let me have this because the math maths (it probably doesn't, but let me have this.)

He's got chronic fatigue, he's gotten used to popping dislocated joints back into place, Bruce was so confused how he dislocated and sprained so many bones so quickly when out as Robin. It's genetic, of course, Bruce finds. But he has money, and Dick powers through it all! Till he develops arthritis in his early thirties/ late twenties and actually hates everything because WHAT AND WHY--

---

Next up! JASON TODD! I have no proof, evidence, and it doesn't have to make sense but I like giving him asthma sometimes for the angst potential of if he didn't have it, he wouldn't have died in the explosion.

He didn't die from said explosion, nor JUST the smoke inhalation, but because he had an asthma attack, on the ground, bones broken, unable to breath because his inhaler did NOT survive the blast, if he even had it on him.

And that's why he wears helmet with so, so many filters in it now...

Also, being a street kid who struggles to even get his medication that keeps him alive? Peak angst, being to poor to afford your medication because the American healthcare system is actually trashy garbage.

R.I.P. Jason Todd, you would've loved clean air--

---

ANEMIC TIM DRAKE! But I up you, Tim Drake with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS)

(POTS: Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) is a condition that causes your heart to beat faster than normal when you transition from sitting or lying down to standing up. It’s a type of orthostatic intolerance.)

Read ONE SINGLE FIC/ SERIES with this and I've loved it since because what do you mean he randomly falls asleep anywhere? No, forget your canon, he passed out and people think he just fell asleep... NOpe, he passed out, sorry random lady he was on a date with!

(The majority of people are AFAM but we aren't ready for my trans Tim headcanons yet either.)

(You’re at a higher risk of developing POTS after experiencing the following stressors:

Significant illnesses, such as viral illnesses like mononucleosis or serious infections.

Physical trauma, such as a head injury.)

Ngl, my dude gets a LOT of physical trauma (and mental--) also, losing a spleen? Surgery and at risk of viral illnesses? I'm sorry, but I need him to suffer more because I like when Tim Drake suffers horribly.

Now, despite having this condition, I am no expert, but also his caffiene/ energy drink addiction is from chronic fatigue, he shouldn't drink it, it's not healthy or good for him, but he stopped caring between the spleen loss and whatever the "Drake" run he did was because what even was that name?--

---

Damian is autistic and I will DIE ON THAT HILL--

No, I won't explain and you can't make me.

---

#headcanons #batman #bruce wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #chronically ill #chronic illness #chronic pain #chronic fatigue #pots #pots syndrome #hypermobility #asthma #angst

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koalapastries-writes · 2 days ago

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drivers reaction to realising they’re the sugar baby/ they earn less money in the relationship haha

also i am deciding to become spoon anon (if it’s not taken haha)

it's not taken!

also sugar baby!drivers is an excellent concept. we should talk abt it a lot. please.

alex albon:

lowkey not surprised

you don't make a big deal about how much money you have/earn

you probably live like a (mostly) normal person who just happens to be able to afford to go to a lot of races

but there were clues

totally brags about it all the time

he probably doesn't spend your money all that much tbh

and he'll never admit how much he likes it when you buy him gifts for no reason

charles leclerc:

GIVE THIS MAN THE PRINCESS TREATMENT HE DESERVES!!!!

he's like that shocked pikachu face when he finds out

totally blindsided

i mean he knew you weren't struggling or anything but he never expected you to be earning more than him?

definitely questions the entire relationship dynamic lmao

and then very comfortably settles into his rightful role of passenger princess

you are the only person he'll let drive him around without freaking out

(also probably into pretending that he's actually your sugar baby when he sends you personal photos)

franco colapinto:

this boy talks abt being poor so much he probably assumed you made more money than he did

still probably only thought you made like a comfortable wage and not more than an actual f1 salary?

takes a longggggg time for him to be comfortable with you spending money on him

when he does though ... he gets so giggly whenever you give him presents istg

kinda loves that he can just pretend to be your trophy boyfriend

jenson button:

post-retirement he's surprised but like. it's much more feasible?

still takes him a minute to get his head around but then he's always teasing you about making you pay for dates and everything

pre-retirement though? he is a MENACE

he's using your card for literally everything and absolutely will not shut up about being a sugar baby to the other drivers (even though you're actually his boyfriend and not just his sugar daddy)

side note but he'd definitely be using your money to buy himself sex toys and stuff and then sending you cheeky texts thanking you for the 'gift' and a photo of him using it

kimi antonelli:

surprised but pleasantly

definitely holds it over ollie's head

loveloveloves being your trophy boyfriend

like he's a literal f1 driver now and he's walking around telling people about how his boyfriend bought him his dream (road) car

very cute

kimi raikkonen:

kinda doesn't care but still kinda likes it?

he doesn't want you to spend tons of money on him

but he likes that you could

also likes homemade things a lot more than if you bought him something mega expensive?

he'd take cooking together over a fancy restaurant any day

lance stroll:

did not think it was possible

and tbf neither did anyone else

the whole internet thought you were a gold digger

lance knew it was possibility but he was like. ykw he's hot and i love him idc.

and then he catches a glimpse of your bank account one day and his eyes nearly fall out of his head

kind of loses his mind a little bit?

can't talk to you without stuttering and blushing for DAYS

secretly likes it when you call him a princess

yes this is a reference to the "call me a pillow princess the way i sleep forever and ever" post

oscar piastri:

silently proud

lets you pay for everything (you WILL fight him for the cheque)

kinda loves that you just quietly take care of him?

won't really tell anyone other than his family and maybe logan because it came up once

you would definitely take care of his whole family at the drop of a hat

guys i think i may have fallen in love with sugar baby!drivers

#vinnie's 250 #formula 1 x male reader #alex albon x male reader #charles leclerc x male reader #franco colapinto x male reader #jenson button x male reader #kimi antonelli x male reader #kimi raikkonen x male reader #lance stroll x male reader #oscar piastri x male reader #🥄 anon

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whateverisbeautiful · 3 days ago

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I love waking up and reading your Richonne posts. You pretty much hit on every scene and I am so thankful for that.

Could you go over maybe a 2 part take of what you think had happened during the months of them getting to know each other during the prison times. Also, the months they got close together in Alexandria before they became official. Since, the show robbed of us seeing those scenes. I would love to hear your detailed theory on it because you know these two characters so well!

A 2-parter? You’re speaking my language, anon. 😋 Thank you for this message. 🙏🏽 And for some reason my mind read this ask and added in “a detailed play-by-play” of what I think happened and so that’s pretty much what I ended up writing. Starting with Part One - the time in between Seasons 3 and 4 at the prison that led to Rick and Michonne being like this in the season 4 premiere ⬇️💗:

I always like to think about what specific context from the actual show could most inform these type of unseen scenarios and then shape what I envision from there. So I first started thinking about where Rick and Michonne landed in the season 3 finale.

If I remember correctly they both rode in the car together after saying their goodbyes to Andrea, and Daryl drove the bus. I feel like that car ride might have laid another small stepping stone toward growing Rick and Michonne’s fondness for each other. I don’t imagine that they even talked much in the car because it was a somber vibe after losing Andrea. But I can picture Rick seeing Michonne quietly emotional in the car, and for reasons he’s not fully aware of yet seeing her upset affects him and his want to comfort her is stronger than he’d expect.

I can picture something like when they pull up to the prison after Woodbury, Rick just lets her know that Andrea isn’t the only one who thinks it’s good that Michonne found them. And the silence after is so clearly his “I’m glad too.” But you know how back then Rick tended to say something that felt like it was almost going to be a profession about his fondness for her but then he’d sorta retreat - I think he’d do that and just add that they all are glad she’s with them. And Michonne would just give an appreciative smile and walk away because she’d still be pretty heartbroken over losing yet another person she cared about.

Then I think going forward, that loss, on top of the loss of her boyfriend and baby, makes Michonne maintain a friendly distance from everyone in team family for a while. Like she’s always keeping herself busy by independently tending to tasks that help around the prison, going on runs, and trying to track down The Governor. But Rick still keeps an eye on her from afar.

And if I remember correctly, because it’s been a minute since I’ve watched these seasons, Rick and Michonne both weren’t members of that new committee that was formed. So I can imagine that maybe there were times when some of the other people closest to them were in meetings or away which may have prompted Rick and Michonne to chat a bit more - but still keeping it light and brief, not having extended conversations yet. Perhaps both would find themselves observing each other at times - Michonne seeing Rick out farming, Rick seeing Michonne out taking down walkers around the prison’s perimeter. Except maybe not watching her with binoculars this time lol.

Then, going off of info from s4, I think during these months that we didn’t see something that might’ve slowly but surely made Michonne lessen some of her lone wolf ways is when Daryl asks her to join him on runs. She agrees to go with him and they build a friendship.

And then whenever Michonne is back at the prison she starts getting closer to Carl too because they bond over things like books and comics. And perhaps Michonne and Carl especially bond when she brings back a bag of candy for him after one of her runs. They share some together and learn Michonne doesn’t mind the stale M&M's, and that becomes a running joke between them. 😊

So with Michonne getting closer to two of the people closest to Rick - Carl and Daryl - that starts bringing Rick and Michonne around each other more often too in a more social context. And this is where that crush we saw had clearly formed by the s4 premiere really starts taking root.

Like Michonne and Carl build this really natural, lighthearted, playful rapport and then it leads to Michonne lightly joking with Rick too. I picture that Rick is a bit bashful around her but they still occasionally have that flirty subtle-but-not-subtle “must’ve been something else then”/“you want to drive” type exchanges.

And Daryl definitely peeps these moments at times and knows you don’t even have to be an observant tracker to pick up on the stuff between Rick and Michonne. But he keeps those observations to himself...for the most part lol.

Michonne has playful banter with Daryl too but subconsciously she can feel that her exchanges with Rick feel different. And Rick loves it whenever Michonne spends time with them around the prison. It feels like family.

Other TWD scenes that I think give a glimpse into what that time between s3 and s4 might've looked like are when Rick asks if she’s okay after she hurts her ankle, and when Rick washes up and asks if Michonne needs help with cleaning up those walker bodies. Lots of exchanges like that going on. Showing they care and like each other but are moving slowly toward really getting close.

And through these exchanges - of which it’s rarely ever just the two of them in private because Carl or people are usually always around - Rick and Michonne start to pick up on more and more things they like about each other.

I like to imagine that perhaps whenever the community had some downtime in the evenings or nights, it’d so often end up being Michonne, Carl, and Rick hanging around each other. With Judith there too sometimes, who Michonne seems to keep this subtle distance from as the baby triggers too painful a wound.

But when Michonne starts to really care for them and feels herself getting closer to them - finding herself thinking about Rick and Carl while on runs and looking forward to their little exchanges - she starts going out further and further to look for the Governor - and subconsciously, part of that is to distance herself.

Rick isn’t crazy about her going off alone to find a certified madman but only really shows his disagreement in facial expression and maybe an occasional remark to Daryl about how he wants her to be safe. (And Daryl knows Rick wants that and more when it comes to Michonne, ijs.).

Maybe one time Rick does mention to Michonne that she doesn’t have to go out so much or so far but she’s adamant that it is something she has to do - hence why she makes that “It’s worth a shot" comment when she’s talking to Rick and Daryl in the s4 premiere.

She might already know Rick feels a type of way about her going on these missions cuz he briefly mentioned it before (and because he can't help but wear his emotions right on his face lol), but her subconscious also knows that staying around Rick too long is too vulnerable and wakes up too much within her that she thought died a while ago.

Finally, I picture that there’s one night when Rick, Michonne, and Carl are just enjoying some downtime chatting together as usual but then either Carl falls asleep or somehow he leaves to talk with one of the kids around the prison and it’s a rare moment where it’s just Rick and Michonne together.

And that night they start talking on a more personal level. They don’t divulge their life stories or anything because I don’t think they really deep-dived into getting to know each other like that until the second half of season 4. But in this conversation, they do open up just a bit more and give more insight into how they think and operate, which they refreshingly find to be quite similar. And in the areas they learn that they’re different - they find that refreshing too.

And I like to think that their talk on this one night was one of those things where - you know how people say they were conversing with their person in the early stages of getting to know them and they just never wanted the moment to end and they could have stayed talking to that person forever and damn near do talk to them for more hours than they realized? It was like that.

Rick and Michonne both know in the deeper parts of their psyche that spending that time together just felt right. Falling for each other is still something they're doing subconsciously rather than cognizantly at this point, but what they are aware of is that they do enjoy each other a lot. And how right it feels to spend time with each other also subconsciously scares them a bit. Almost like it’s too right too fast. So those walls go right back up after that conversation ends and they don’t really get a chance to talk on that personal of a level again until the prison falls.

Even though deep down both of them really would like to have that time together again, and low-key Rick is so eager for another chance to just be around her like that, that just hearing her riding back from one of her outings has him springing up from his farming session with Hershel in order to run and greet her and ask if she’s going to stay a little while.

And that’s my take on what I think happened between Richonne in the time between season 3 and season 4. 👌🏽😌

And Anon, you know you’ve tempted me with a good time by asking to have a part two about the time between No Way Out and Richonne’s canon episode The Next World. So I'll try and have a (possibly less lengthy 😅) Part Two on the way soon. 😊

#richonne #reflecting on richonne #asks & answers

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wildsaltair · 1 day ago

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Stalking Tiger

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

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

Word Count: 8.6k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole world seems to stand still as you wait.

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

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

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, indeed, he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are my strength.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#just in case anyone wants to know what's going through my mind at any given moment of the day #maximus my one true love the king of my heart the light of my life #he is everything plus everything to me #oh to be the one to care for his wounds #oh to be the one to reassure him of my love and bring him peace in such a terrible time #the way i love this man isn't normal #i hope that love is obvious in this fic :)#i certainly meant it as an ode to him #gladiator #maximus #maximus decimus meridius #gladiator 2000 #russell crowe #fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #maximus x reader #maximus decimus meridius x reader #my fanfiction

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