#this may seem sweet

[myymi]

addict spotted 🫵

[shepscapades]

Xisuma, why in the world were trying to fix your helmet with TAPE?? I thought the superglue idea was unhinged but THIS IS A NEW LEVEL

(I know that it's probably not holding itself ONLY on tape, but the image in my head is too funny)

What's next? You tell me he attached Doc's new arm to his body with tape and glue too??

THIS RESPONSE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMICAL but I let it get away from me;;

[macdenlover]

we don’t acknowledge enough how dee used to be a pageant winner when she was a kid and how much damage it did to her. she worked her ass off and got recognition for being pretty and talented at a young age and it was the only source of self esteem she could garner in a family that constantly berated and talked down to her. she sought after that external approval because it was the only way she could prove everyone around her wrong. her dream of being a performer didn’t come from a self-aggrandizing delusion— she genuinely showed a lot of potential when she was younger. but she went through an unflattering puberty and her spinal condition got worse and that natural talent she had as a kid plateaued way too early. the “former gifted kid” dilemma. she slowly lost the thing that promised her that she was good, but she was so desperate to keep holding onto it that she tried anyway. again and again and again no matter how much people made fun of her because it was always about proving them wrong. but after a while she couldn’t jump anymore without anticipating the way it feels when she hits the ground face first. self-sabotage became her way out, choosing to rather live in the fantasy of her own unrealized potential and blaming those around her for her lack of success, than having tried and crashed again. she’d rather buy lottery tickets over and over and never scratch off the numbers than to see that she lost. that self-sabotaging behavior bled into other aspects of her life too, from friendships to relationships to therapy. her own short lived success is what made her grow into embodying the cycle of failure.

[redr0sewrites]

i will forever defend these two- NOT to start discourse but they are both so heavily mischaracterized by the fandom its INSANE like omg yes they are flawed but they are also trying their best PLEASE leave them alone 🙏🙏🙏

as usual im yapping in the tags if anyone cares

[noahschnappinfs]

Noah’s stand-in from season 2 met him again recently and said that Noah loves to say "I can't believe how much taller I am than you now!”

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Christmas Celebration

So. When I started typing this. The poll had said that Fluff was wanted with a small lead. The whole time while typing it it was even (seriously how did you do that?!) and as soon as i finish suddenly Lore won?

No. You guys are getting fluff now >:D

First Drabble (original prompt by @spotaus ) Prev Drabble Next Drabble

(also for those curious this ended up being 3700 words so strap in and get ready)

*----------------------*

Nightmare wakes up early. Very early.

He isn’t that surprised. Not really. How can he really be?

Nightmare takes a moment to check how he is captured this time. Seems like Killer is completely wrapped around him and Horror holding both him and Killer. Dust and Cross are on his other side.

Mmmh… A bit more complex.

Probably his own fault for sneaking out of bed and the nest as often as he does. Still. He isn’t about to be discouraged about it.

Some wiggling and scooting and a lot of patience later and he is next to the bed.

Hah. Nightmare pats himself down before walking towards the chair holding their clothes.

It is still a bit weird but also nice to be spending a few nights at Crop’s and Straw’s. The two brothers had invited all of them to spend Christmas with them. Christmas here being all about family and spending time with them.

Horror had obviously wanted to go but he hadn’t immediately said yes. Said they would talk about it first. Which Nightmare gets. Dust still has issues with seeing anyone who resembles his own brother.

But as soon as Horror had told them about the invite Dust must have also seen how badly Horror wanted to spend more time with his best friend. Meaning he had said it would only be fair to say yes and spend time with them.

Killer had quickly agreed and Cross had seemed curious about the whole holiday as well.

Which leads them to here.

Nightmare finishes putting on his extra socks and his bat hoody. He puts on a beanie over his skull. He still is sensitive to the cold and he had to promise all of them that he would make sure he was dressed warm if he exited to nest.

Now fully dressed he slowly sneaks downstairs. It is still dark out but he doesn’t mind too much. A glance at the clock confirms it is nearing the normal time that Horror and Cross get up. Thought with the longer nights and the cold neither are as quick to wake up unless they turn on their own alarms.

Nightmare gets downstairs and spots Straw and Crop both getting ready to go outside. Nightmare takes a seat on the stairs and tilts his skull at them “Where are you going?”

Both of them jump and turn quickly. Straw sighs but grins “Wowie. You are a very sneaky babybones.”

Nightmare shrugs as he waits for his answer.

Crop chuckles “We are going to check the animals. Make sure they made it through the night and got enough things to drink and eat for the day.” He looks considerate at Straw and Straw nods with a large grin and a begging look.

Crop laughs but looks at Nightmare “Want to come along? Or do you think your dads will kill me if you come with?”

Embarrassed and Nightmare shrugs “I mean… if we leave a note I think they will not panic?” he isn’t sure what to even call them at this point. Not after everything. He tries not to think about it too much.

Straw looks so excited “Do you want to come? You can pet Betty again. And maybe pet some of the chickens?” as Straw speaks Crop is looking through the jackets and snowboots to find Nightmare’s set.

Nightmare ends up nodding and walking over. Straw quickly goes to grab some paper and a pen to leave the note as Crop hands over the outdoor wear. He dresses himself and waves off the help offered by Crop. It is just… he is fine dressing himself… mostly… He just lets the gang do it and help him because it makes it faster and they are.. well them!

Tying his shoes takes longer but works alright in the end. Even if the loops are a little… loose looking and not as tied when Cross does it for him.

Even so he pulls his hood up tightly over his beanie covered skull and gets ready for the cold.

Crop opens the door and Nightmare shivers a bit as the cold air penetrates through his jacket a bit. Not as bad as before but that is because of all the extra layers he is wearing.

Straw suddenly looks a bit unsure “You okay? Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all…” he shoots Crop a nervous look.

Crop looks at him “You still want to come?”

Nightmare huffs and nods trying to appear certain and determined. It is only after Crop starts to smile and Straw coos slightly that Nightmare remembers he is still wearing his frog beanie and his bat hoody. Sure there is a jacket over that but it is still not the most serious look.

He carefully walks through the snow and pauses to test a few steps. His spine had been starting to feel a bit better but he best not irate it by falling over and hurting himself.

It is a slow journey but they get to the chicken coop and Crop unlocks the little latch to let them into the area. Straw quickly grabs the stored food and easily jumps over the little fence to join their side.

Crop grins and opens the coop and must see the confusion on Nightmare’s face. Crop chuckles “They aren’t the biggest fans of the cold.”

Nightmare huffs and nods in slight agreement. He gets that. He isn’t either.

Crop chuckles but continues “But. It is good for them to get some fresh air and move around a bit. It is why I like opening the hatch at least for the morning feeding.”

Straw joins his side by crouching down and opening the bag with seeds and some wheats “We can throw this out a bit for them. Encourage them to come outside before filling up the reserves inside the coop.” Straw grabs a hand and shows how he spreads it around.

Nightmare looks at his own mitten covered hand but grabs a tiny hand before spreading it out around the coop.

Some soft clucks and some chickens slowly waddle out. Looking very suspicious of the snow but clearly wanting the food. They slowly get nearer.

Straw grins and holds some food out for the chickens in his hands. Letting the chickens get closer and once they are close slowly letting it fall to the ground. The chicken starts to eat and Straw pets it. Straw grins at him “See? Easy does it. The girls are all very nice!”

Nightmare frowns but slowly grabs a small hand himself as he holds it out. One of the birds looks at the food he is offering and slowly walks over. Giving soft clucks along the way. Nightmare drops the food when she is close. The chicken pauses before starting to peck away at it. Nightmare inches a few tiny steps closer and pets the chicken. He obviously can’t feel the feathers through his gloves but the idea is nice.

Huh. He… just realised this is actually the first time he is near the animals on his own two legs. The first time he stayed here he remained inside the whole time. His back still too weak to even sit alone for a long time much less stand on his own. The only times he was near any of the animals it was when Dust held him and only near Betty once or twice.

So much had changed.

Crop pops out of the coop and dusts himself off “That is their feeds being filled again. Lets go to Betty next.”

Nightmare frowns as he looks at the coop “Don’t they need to be inside first?”

Straw nods “When we lock it certainly! But they need a moment for themselves outside and will soon realise there is also food inside. Then they will go back in themselves!”

Crop nods and gently nudges some of the chickens away from the fence as he unlocks the hatch again “Ready for the barn?”

Nightmare nods and walks towards the small gate after making sure his gloves are empty of any chicken food.

They leave the little chicken area and move towards the barn.

The inside of the barn is warmer and Nightmare watches as both Crop and Straw remove their scarfs and their gloves. Nightmare keeps his on, thank you very much, it is still cold even if it is a bit less cold.

Crop leads the way and they find the cow relaxing in one of the pen things inside the barn.

Crop pets the cow “Hey there girl. How are you today?” Betty moos and pushes into the affection.

Nightmare is a bit unsure… the cow looks so much… bigger now… He kinda gets why Cross is afraid of them now… it is big and strong and can probably easily break one of his bones… probably more bones at once… he isn’t the strongest of sturdiest anymore and-

“You remember Nightmare right?” Crop sounds gentle as he speaks to Betty. The cow flaps one of her ears and looks around a bit. Spotting Nightmare hiding partly behind the wooden wall of the pen. Oh no.

Crop looks over and smiles “Ready to pet her again?”

Nightmare feels a bit more unsure and shrugs “I dunno…” how to get out of this?

Straw gives him a gentle nudge forwards “It will be nice!”

Nightmare isn’t so sure but slowly walks closer. Animals either love or hate him. There is no in between… Sure Betty seemed okay before but that was with Dust near and Dust you don’t mess with.

Still he slowly gets closer and reaches an arm and hand out. it shakes slightly.

Crop speaks softly “Hey… no need to be nervous… she is very nice and gentle and there is no real wrong way of petting her.”

Hah! Sure. Nervous!

His mitten covered hand reaches the cow’s head and he slowly gives it a pet. One. Two. Three. He pulls his hand back and takes a few steps back. There. He did it. Full marks.

Crop frowns at him while straw grins “see? All good! And look! She still remembers you and liked your petting!” he nudges him again.

Crop gives his brother a smile “I think that is enough. I think I best get him back inside before the wind picks up or it starts snowing. You mind finishing up?”

Straw frowns but looks outside at the dark clouds in the sky “That is for the best. Snow is probably about to happen very soon.”

Crop thanks his brother and he and Nightmare start to leave the barn. Crop frowns at him “Why didn’t you say you didn’t want to pet her?”

Damnit. Not the best at acting still. Nightmare shrugs “it wasn’t big of a deal…” it is more of a mumble than anything. How does he explain that at first he had liked the idea but then seeing the cow from ground level and having to look up at it made him nervous?

They exit the barn and are two steps further when they hear the shout “Nightmare!”.

Crop and him look up to see Cross sprinting at them. He gets to their side and picks Nightmare up as he shoots the barn a nervous look before focussing on him “Are you okay? cold? Hurt? sore? Tired?” he checks his temperature and relaxes “you good… you are fine…”.

Crop smiles as he crosses his arms “We know what to watch out for.”

Cross looks away embarrassed but doesn’t let Nightmare go out of his hug “I know! I mean we know that. It is just… I woke up and well… he wasn’t there… and I saw the note and I just…” he keeps holding him close.

Crop nods “Fair enough. We were just on our way back. But if you could take him back I can stop by the chickens to check if they are in the coop again.”

Cross is already a few steps towards the house before Crop finishes speaking “Yes. I got Nightmare you good luck with your chores!” and he quickly goes back to the house.

Nightmare frowns up at Cross. Weird… Cross normally didn’t even want to walk into the direction of the barn as he knew Betty was there… yet he came running for him…

Nightmare feels warm and safe and confused as he just leans more into Cross’s hold. Sure he knew they were safe but… this is different… it feels more. He only really started to notice it lately just how… how at home it feels. To be with them. Near them.

They get back inside and Nightmare spots Horror immediately. Horror frowns at them and Cross looks away shyly “I euh… got him already and-”

Horror just shakes his skull and looks pointedly at Cross “The note said both Crop and Straw were with him.” he gives him a long look “No reason to run out without a jacket.”

Nightmare blinks and turns only to now notice that Cross isn’t wearing anything over his pjs. Nightmare blinks and looks disapproving at Cross “You could get sick.”

Cross looks slightly panicked between them “I just! I panicked!” and Nightmare feels Cross pull him even closer.

Horror sighs but looks unsurprised. He takes a few steps over and Nightmare feels Horror take him from Cross. Horror easily holds him with one arm before pushing Cross towards the bathroom “Go warm up. I will get you clothes after I got Nightmare out of his outdoor clothes.”

Cross looks ready to object but after taking a look to at Horror and him he relaxes and easily agrees. He disappears into the bathroom.

Nightmare frowns as Horror and him sit down and Horror helps him easily out of his jacket and snowboots. Nightmare looks at the bathroom door before looking back at Horror “Why did he run out? Was the note not okay?” he thought with a note it would be fine. A note was normally all any of the guys needed to leave for each other.

Horror snorts a she shakes his skull “The note was very clear. I think it was just the fact it wasn’t any of us with you that made him nervous.” Horror makes sure his beanie is on right before putting the stuff for outside back by the front door “which is something Cross himself has to work on. Trusting others outside of our tight circle.”

Nightmare nods. It isn’t that surprising. After all the betrayal Cross has had to deal with.

Horror does shoot Nightmare a knowing look “But I think it was very brave of him. He ran towards the barn right?” Nightmare nods and Horror grins “very brave seeing as he considers that Betty’s territory.”

Nightmare feels that same warm and safe feeling again as he crosses his arms. Almost as if he is trying to hide the feeling as he mutters “I thought the same…”

Horror rubs his skull and Nightmare feels himself relax “Don’t worry about it okay? he is fine.” Then more thoughtful “Well… unless I get him clean clothes. Give me a moment.” And he disappears upstairs.

Nightmare still feels warm and cozy and safe and… well…

Loved.

--

Nightmare sits on the counter as he watches Horror, Straw and Crop work on dinner together. It is a whole thing and they had been at work since just after lunch. Straw is working on this giant turkey while Crop works on the side dishes. Horror is in charge of the desert and Nightmare just watches them work together.

It is nice. Even if he isn’t allowed to help.

Cross, Killer and Dust are moving stuff around in the living room. Setting up the table and games or something.

Straw checks the turkey again before nodding and moving towards the counter to work on this mutter mixture he had been dripping over the bird every so often “I still can’t believe none of you have ever celebrated Christmas!”

Yeah that is another thing that Nightmare just doesn’t know what it is exactly.

Horror snorts as he works on the frosting “Told you. Most of us only celebrated Gyftmas underground. And that was all about presents more than anything.”

Nightmare swings his legs as he gives his own answer “My universe just… didn’t have it.” hard to have  winter holiday without winter “just had harvest celebrations and stuff like that.” And the only one who ever got gifts was Dream anyway. So a party? To focus on celebrating family? It sounds real nice.

Straw looks deeply troubled by this “A child never having had the chance to experience the joy of Christmas? Ah. The multiverse is a rough and cruel place and fate is beyond unfair.”

Horror snorts and nods “Very true.”

Crop frowns “We aren’t big on presents with Christmas in this universe… if we had known…”

Horror shakes his skull “No worries. None of us celebrated it in a long time and it has… rough memories for all of us. This is nice. A new tradition.” Horror looks at what he made and holds a tiny spoon up to Nightmare “What do you think? Tasty enough?”

Nightmare gives Horror an unimpressed look “Everything you make is tasty.” But he isn’t going to pass up a chance for an early taste and happily tastes it. As expected. Delicious. He hums happily and nods “Very tasty.”

Horror chuckles and puts the frosting in the fridge before moving on to the next part of the cake.

Nightmare is eventually removed from the kitchen to wait with the others in the warm fireplace lit living room. Something about making sure he is safe as the kitchen is about to be hectic. Which is just nice words for him having to stay out of the way.

Killer pokes his cheek and grins “such a grumpy baby.”

Nightmare pouts and crosses his arms “I could have helped…” somehow…

Killer grins “Of course. Just not in the chaos and hectic energy of preparing a bit feast. The timing is everything and can get stressful.”

Nightmare gets it but still…

Killer grins “If it makes you feel any better. Us three were banned from the very beginning. You were at least allowed to stay in the kitchen with them for most of the prep.”

Cross looks insulted but Dust just shakes his skull at him.

Killer grins “What? We all know it is the truth.” And he winks at Nightmare.

Huh… that does make him feel a bit better.

A bit later the three cooks bring out the food and they sit at the table.

You would think that seven at the table would get complex but they manage. Nightmare is pretty sure they made the seating arrangement with Dust’s situation in mind.

Seeing as Horror is sitting between Dust and Straw. Making it almost impossible for Dust to see the other Papyrus. And with Straw speaking in another accent the voice is not familiar enough to trigger him.

Killer sits at the table head, next to Dust. And Nightmare sits on his other side with Cross on his own other side. Crop sits across from his brother next to Cross. The other head end of the table is against the wall.

It is nice. Straw proudly cuts his turkey as Horror easily moves the dishes around the table to whoever has an interest.

It is all delicious and smells so nice. Everyone is relaxed and laughing and just enjoying themselves.

Everyone it so happy.

After the main course Cross helps with putting the food away as Horror puts the last few finishing touches to his cake which he brings out. It is vanilla with delicious banana frosting with tiny chocolates. It is so good and everyone agrees.

Nightmare is honestly feeling sleepy already by the time it is time to play some games and relax by the fireplace. Nightmare is on the same team as Dust and leans heavily against him as they start a game of catan.

Nightmare feels himself fall asleep before everyone even had their first turn.

He just hears them talk as he dozes against Dust’s side. He feels himself be moved and he makes sure to make his displeasure known. Dust just mumbles a soft reassurance to him that he can stay asleep. He leans against the other and hears Dust’s soulbeat against the side of his skull.

It is calm and soft and Nightmare feels his whole being relax more and more. His own soul slowing and calming down as well.

The feeling is familiar at this point. He gets it a lot when he is being held by any of them. But it is so much clearer and so much stronger when he feels sleepy.

Like another hug. Relaxing him more and more and pulling him towards sleep.

He isn’t sure how long he stays just like that. In Dust’s lap and arms. Happily half asleep as he listens to the others. Sometimes sleeping fully for short periods of time.

Nightmare is pulled from his sleep as Dust gets up. He blinks open his sockets and looks around confused, why are they moving?

Dust nuzzles his skull and mutters softly against his skull “we are just going to bed.”

Nightmare hums and pushes closer to Dust again. Following the soft reassurance send to him form the adult soul so close. Calling out to his very being that it is okay to sleep and rest.

He notices that someone is helping him into his pjs and helps him brush his teeth. Nightmare can still hear movement downstairs as the others no doubt clean up everything.

Nightmare is laid down in bed and he immediately pushes his skull deeper into the pillow.

A soft chuckle “Comfy tiny boss?”

Oh. Killer is with him now?

Nightmare just hums. A weight joins him and a blanket is pulled over him. Two arms pull him close and another adult soul is near. Different then Dust’s. Much louder. So it really is Killer. The message remains the same though. It is safe. I got you. You can rest.

Just… He knows that is the message.

Killer hums and whispers to him “That is it baby. Just sleep.”

Nightmare pushes closer to the other and willingly succumbs to sleep. *----------------------*

First Drabble Prev Drabble Next Drabble

[elviraaxen]

I'm probably not the first to admit this but goddamn was I a narcissistic prick when I wasn't on stimulants

[phoenixkaptain]

My favourite thing about Leia is how fucking soft she is.

Like she is a little lady. She speaks very gently. She cares so much. She’s protective and warm. She just smiles and looks so happy. With Luke. Like, only Luke.

In the movies, this is also the case, but it really is one of my favourite parts of the 2015 run of the comics. They’re like, Leia: “Luke is doing great” while Luke is in the background getting thrown through a wall.

Sana (I love Sana) says she’ll won’t take Leia to Nar Shaddaa (to Luke) for free and Leia immediately offers her credits. When Sana is like “nah, just give me Han” Leia immediately agrees, and like. It’s funny for a variety of reasons but my favourite one is that Leia is trading Han for the Chance of seeing Luke.

And like, the comics show Leia telling Luke that she supports him even though he has to leave and she is very sad about it. She’s super disappointed she doesn’t get to go on the long probably meant-to-be boring mission with him. She just wants to hang out with Luke and make sure he’s okay and try not to lose him in the first fifteen minutes (again) or fifteen minutes after finding him again (also again).

I mean, it isn’t just Leia, I fucking adore Chewbacca’s relationship with Luke because. “Who would be stupid enough to volunteer to go on a doomed rescue mission for Skywalker-“ and it’s Chewbacca, Chewbacca is stupid enough, Chewbacca has the ship idling in the hangar, Chewbacca has had a Luke Rescue Kit in the ship since Luke left a week ago, Chewbacca is so ready to go on a doomed, borderline suicidal rescue mission for Luke.

Chewbacca just beats up a bar full of people to get them to tell him where Luke is. Like, that’s amazing. It’s adorable. He makes C3PO come with him. A wonderful idea. Chewbacca eventually picks Luke up like Like is a big cat. My favourite panel of all time.

Chewbacca and Leia are both over there like “I’ve only had Luke for three and a half months and if anything happened to him, I would kill all of you to get enough blood to perform an ancient ritual to make him perfectly alright again and I would start with Han.”

Han, meanwhile, is over there like “rude. Understandable, but still. Super rude.”

And I just think how soft Leia is with Luke is really sweet and how soft Chewbacca is with Luke is really cute and how both of them are so sarcastic to Han for literally no reason other than that they Thrive with his annoyance-

It’s great. If nobody else gets the characters, the 2015 run comes the closest.

[electricparchment]

🤍

[scissorcraft]

i really want to make isat friends…

[razberrypuck]

I hhope. may and troy see each other in the underground.

[nonokoko13]

SPOILERS MANGA CHAPTER 3: OCTAVINELLE

OMG THIS YUU IS SO SO CUTE!!!!!!

LOOK AT HIM/THEM. ADORABLE. I WANNA HUG HIM/THEM 💖💖💖

Edit: Apparently his name is Yuuta, 16 yo. Maybe his surname is Mito, from what I heard in Reddit. I also read there that his family owns a Chinese restaurant, until you have better sources or find where it says that yourselves don't take it as official.

[psalm40speakstome]

No Gain, No Love. Episode Eleven.

Not even sure what point I’m going for here but I think it’s worth noting that Hae Yeong(who is assumed to be the mean and jaded and selfish one) NEVER blames her Dad’s death on Ja Yeon.

While her Mom(who everyone considers an angel) lied too and ignored Hae Yeong, made at least one foster kid complicit in those lies within seconds of meeting him, and called and blamed a battered child for her abusive Dad actions…

Yes she apologized and TRULY did not blame her she was just in a “bad place” but I think it’s worth noting at any rate.

[farmhandler]

Am I continuing my poolverine already? Maybe so. A small piece

---

Logan smiled at Al instinctively and walked up behind Wade. He laid one palm on his right shoulder. The other he braced on the table next to him on his left, caging him in.

“How did your appointment go yesterday?” he asked.

Wade chewed his food for a long, long thirty seconds. Logan waited.

Wade shoved more pancake bites in his mouth, then finally replied a full minute later, “How’s your fourth week of sobriety?”

Logan rubbed his hand up and down Wade’s arm. “You said you’d meet this one.”

“Yeah, and you said you’d look at the list I came up with for you. It’s a google doc, and I can see that you haven’t viewed it. Sorry, Al. Hear that you haven’t viewed it.”

“Right.” Logan quickly kissed the top of Wade’s head and squeezed his shoulder. "I’ll look later, okay?”

“You hear what he does, Althea?” Wade said as Logan picked up a few jacks and threw them on a plate. Wade gestured to him as he sat down at the living room table. “He acts all fucking sweet out of nowhere and tries to distract me from all the promises he’s breaking. And it works. Fuck!”

“That is entirely not my problem. Do not involve me,” she said, holding out a hand. Wade huffed and ate another pancake more sedately.

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

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

Word Count: 6.4k

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

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

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

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

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

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

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

[vehemourn]

guy in mabinogi rolled up on a vespa and began polling